CHAPTER X
THE ALIBI
DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"--through the underworld, in dens and dives thatsheltered from the law the vultures that preyed upon society, promptedby self-fear, by secret dread, by reason of their very inabilityto carry out their purpose, the whispered sentence grew daily morevenomous, more insistent. THE GRAY SEAL, DEAD OR ALIVE--BUT THE GRAYSEAL!" It was the "standing orders" of the police. Railed at by apopulace who angrily demanded at its hands this criminal of criminals,mocked at and threatened by a virulent press, stung to madness by theknowledge of its own impotence, flaunted impudently to its face by thismysterious Gray Seal to whose door the law laid a hundred crimes, forwhom the bars of a death cell in Sing Sing was the certain goal couldhe 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 thehands 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 deadline, skulked along the narrow, ill-lighted street of the East Sidethat, on the corner ahead, boasted the notorious resort to which BristolBob had paid the doubtful, if appropriate, compliment of giving hisname. From under the rim of his battered hat, Jimmie Dale's eyes, veiledby half-closed, well-simulated drug-laden lids, missed no detail eitherof his surroundings or pertaining to the passers-by. Though already latein the evening, half-naked children played in the gutters; hawkers ofmultitudinous commodities cried their wares under gasoline banjo torchesaffixed to their pushcarts; shawled women of half a dozen races, and menequally cosmopolitan, loitered at the curb, or blocked the pavement,or brushed by him. Now a man passed him, flinging a greeting fromthe corner of his mouth; now another, always without movement of thelips--and Jimmie Dale answered them--from the corner of his mouth.
But while his eyes were alert, his mind was only subconsciously attuneto his surroundings. Was it indeed the beginning of the end? Some day,he had told himself often enough, the end must come. Was it comingnow, surely, with a sort of grim implacability--when it was too late toescape! Slowly, but inexorably, even his personal freedom of actionwas narrowing, being limited, and, ironically enough, through the veryconditions he had himself created as an avenue of escape.
It was not only the police now; it was, far more to be feared, theunderworld as well. In the old days, the role of Larry the Bat had beenassumed at intervals, at his own discretion, when, in a corner, he hadno other way of escape; now it was forced upon him almost daily. Thecharacter of Larry the Bat could no longer be discarded at will. He hadflung down the gauntlet to the underworld when, as the Gray Seal, he hadclosed the prison doors behind Stangeist, The Mope, Australian Ike, andClarie Deane, and the underworld had picked the gauntlet up. Betrayed,as they believed, by the one who, though unknown to them; they hadcounted the greatest among themselves, and each one fearful that his ownbetrayal might come next, every crook, every thug in the Bad Landsnow eyed his oldest pal with suspicion and distrust, and each was aself-constituted sleuth, with the prod of self-preservation behind him,sworn to the accomplishment of that unhallowed slogan--death to the GraySeal. Almost daily now he must show himself as Larry the Bat in somegathering of the underworld--a prolonged absence from his haunts was notmerely to invite certain suspicion, where all were suspicious of eachother, it was to invite certain disaster. He had now either to carrythe role like a little old man of the sea upon his back, or renounce itforever. And the latter course he dared not even consider--the Sanctuarywas still the Sanctuary, and the role of Larry the Bat was still arefuge, the trump card in the lone hand he played.
He reached the corner, pushed open the door of Bristol Bob's, andshuffled in. The place was a glare of light, a hideous riot of noise. Ona polished section of the floor in the centre, a turkey trot was infull swing; laughter and shouting vied raucously with an impossibleorchestra.
Jimmie Dale slowly made the circuit of the room past the tables, that,ranged around the sides, were packed with occupants who thumped theirglasses in tempo with the music and clamoured at the rushing waitersfor replenishment. A dozen, two dozen, men and women greeted him. JimmieDale indifferently returned their salutes. What a galaxy of crooks--thecream of the underworld! His eyes, under half-closed lids, swept thefaces--lags, dips, gatmen, yeggs, mob stormers, murderers, petty sneakthieves, stalls, hangers-on--they were all there. He knew them all; hewas 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 alsowas quite a celebrity in that gathering--Larry the Bat was of thearistocracy and the elite of gangland. Well, the show was over; he hadstalked across the stage, performed for his audience--and in anotherhour now, free until he must repeat the same performance the next day insome other equally notorious dive, he would be sitting in for a rubberof bridge at that most exclusive of all clubs, the St. James, where nonemight enter save only those whose names were vouched for in the highestand most select circles, and where for partners he would possibly havea justice of the supreme court, or mayhap an eminent divine! He lookedsuddenly around him, as though startled. It always startled him, thatcomparison. There was something too stupendous to be simply ironical inthe incongruity of it. If--if he were ever run to earth!
His eyes met those of a heavy-built, coarse-featured man, the chewed endof a cigar in his mouth, who stepped from behind the bar, carrying a tintray with two full glasses upon it. It was Bristol Bob, ex-pugilist, theproprietor.
"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 arear 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 shuffledslowly after him. He had intended to leave the place by the reardoor--it obviated the possibility of an undesirable acquaintance joiningcompany with him if he went out by the main entrance. But now hiseyes were fixed on the proprietor's back with a sort of speculativecuriosity. There was a private room off the passage, with a window onthe lane; but they must be favoured customers indeed that Bristol Bobwould condescend to serve personally--any one who knew Bristol Bob knewthat.
Jimmie Dale slowed his shuffling gait, then quickened it again. BristolBob opened the door and passed into the private room--the door was justclosing as Jimmie Dale shuffled by. He had had only a glance inside--butit was enough. They were favoured customers indeed! It was no wonderthat Bristol Bob himself was on the job! Two men were in the room:Lannigan of headquarters, rated the smartest plain-clothes man in thecountry--and, across the table from Lannigan, Whitey Mack, as clever,finished and daring a crook as was to be found in the Bad Lands, whoseparticular "line" was diamonds, or, in the vernacular of his ilk, "whitestones," that had earned him the sobriquet of "Whitey." Lannigan ofheadquarters, Whitey Mack of the underworld, sworn enemies those two--insecret session! Bristol Bob might well play the part of outer guard. Ifa choice few of those outside in the dance hall could get a glimpse intothat private room it would be "good-night" to Whitey Mack.
Jimmie Dale's eyes were narrowed a little as he shuffled on down thepassage. Lannigan and Whitey Mack with their heads together! What wasthe game? There was nothing in common between the two men. Lannigan, itwas well known, could not be "reached." Whitey Mack, with his ingeniouscleverness, coupled with a cold-blooded fearlessness that had made himan object of unholy awe and respect in the eyes of the underworld, was athorn 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 bubblingand seething below the dead line, and with which there was none moreintimate than Whitey Mack, Whitey Mack was inviting a risk in "makingup"
with the police that could only be accounted for by some urgent andvital 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 alongthe passage. Jimmie Dale stepped out into the lane--and instinctivelyhis eyes sought the window of the private room. The shade was drawn,only a yellow murk filtered out into the black, unlighted lane, butsuddenly he started noiselessly toward it. The window was open a bareinch 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 theshade was drawn well to the bottom; but he could hear as distinctly asthough 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 curiouslyand strain forward lithe and tense.
"This Gray Seal dope listens good, Whitey; but, coming from you, I'mleery. 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 suppressedsavagery that left no doubt as to his earnestness. "I want him fastenough, 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. Youget that, don't you? He's got Stangeist and his gang steered for theelectric chair now; he put a crimp in the Weasel the other night--getthat? He's like a blasted wizard with what he knows. And who'll he dealthe icy mitt to next? Me--damn him--me, for all I know!"
"That's all right," observed Lannigan coolly. "I'm not questioning yoursincerity for a minute; I know all about that; but that doesn't land theGray Seal. I'll work with you if you've anything to offer, but we've hadenough 'tips' and 'information' handed us at headquarters in the lastfew 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! Iain'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 coldfingers were clutching at his heart, stifling its beat--then the bloodcame bursting to his forehead. He could not see into the room, butthat silence was eloquent. It seemed as though he could picture the twomen--Lannigan leaning suddenly forward--Lannigan and Whitey Mack staringtensely 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 whatI said! I know who the Gray Seal is--and I'm the only guy that's wise tohim. 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 mefor--a fool? You beat it out of here and round him up--eh--while I suckmy thumbs? Say, forget it! Do you think I'm doing this because I loveyou? Why, blame you, you've been aching for a year to put the braceletson 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 littlesharply: "You're quite right; you've got some reputation yourself, andyou're badly 'wanted' if we could get the 'goods' on you. If you'retrying to plant something, look out for yourself, or--"
"Can that!" snapped Whitey Mack threateningly. "Can that sort of spielright now--or quit! I ain't telling you his name--yet. BUT I'LL TAKEYOU TO HIM TO-NIGHT--and you and me nabs him together. Is that straightenough goods for you?"
"Don't get sore," said Lannigan, more pacifically. "Yes, if you'll dothat it's good enough for any man. But lay your cards on the table faceup, Whitey--I want to see what you opened the pot on."
"You've seen 'em," Whitey Mack answered ungraciously. "I've told youalready. The Gray Seal goes out for keeps--curse him for a snitch! IfI 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 offjust the same, only regular, up in the wire parlour at Sing Sing. Iain'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 rewardhung out for him that I'm figuring to born in on. I'd swipe it allmyself, don't you make any mistake about that, and you'd never get alook-in, only, sore as the mob is on the Gray Seal, it ain't healthy forany guy around these parts to get the reputation of being a snitch, nomatter who he snitches on. Bump him off--sure! Snitching--well, you getthe 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 myturn to hand out the 'look-out-for-your-self' dope. I'm busting the gamewide open for you to play, but you throw me down, and"--his voice sankinto a sullen snarl again--"you can take it from me, I'll get you forit!"
"All right," responded Lannigan soberly. "Let's hear it. If I agree toit, I'll stick to it."
"I believe you," said Whitey Mack curtly. "That's why I picked you outfor the medal they'll pin on you for this. And here's getting down totacks! I'll lead you to the Gray Seal to-night and help you nab him andstay with you to the finish, but there's to be nobody but you and me onthe 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 suityourself. The cash is different--you come across with half the rewardthe day they pay it."
"You'll get it!" There was savage elation in Lannigan's voice, theemphatic smash of a fist on the table. "You're on, Whitey. And if we getthe 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. Thecrunch of a footstep sounded from the end of the lane. Some one hadturned in from the cross street, some fifty yards away, and was headingevidently for the back entrance to Bristol Bob's. Jimmie Dale edgednoiselessly, cautiously back past the doorway, kept on, pressed closeagainst the wall, and finally paused. He had not been seen. The backdoor 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 hisbrain, something like a myriad batteries of trip hammers seemed to bepounding at his temples. Then, almost blindly, he kept on down the lanein the same direction in which he had started to retreat--as well onecross street as another.
He turned into the cross street, went along it--and presently emergedinto the full tide of the Bowery. It was garishly lighted; peopleswarmed 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 thesuddenness of the shock. Was it true? No; it could not be true! It wasa bluff--Whitey Mack was bluffing. Jimmie Dale's lips grew thin in amirthless smile as he shook his head. Neither Whitey Mack nor any otherman 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'swords rang in his ears: "I'll LEAD you to the Gray Seal to-night andhelp you nab him and stay with you to the finish." The man meant what hesaid, meant what he said, too, about the "finish" of the Gray Seal; nota man in the Bad Lands but meant--death to the Gray Seal! But how, bywhat means, when, where had Whitey Mack got his information? "I'm theonly one that's wise," Whitey Mack had said. It seemed impossible. ItWAS impossible! Whitey Mack was sincere enough probably in what he hadsaid, but the man simply could not know. Whitey Mack could only havespotted some one that, for some reason or other, he IMAGINED was theGray Seal. That was it--must be it! Whitey Mack had made a mistake. Whatclew could he have obtained to-- r />
Over the unwashed face of Larry the Bat a gray pallor spread slowly. Hisfingers 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 onedamned, rose to his lips, and was choked back. It was gone! GONE! Thatthin metal case, like a cigarette case, that, between the little sheetsof oil paper, held those diamond-shaped, gray-coloured, adhesive seals,the insignia of the Gray Seal--was gone! Clew! It seemed as though therewere an overpowering nausea upon him. CLEW! That little case was not aclew--it was a death warrant!
His hands clenched fiercely. If he could only think for a moment! Thelining of his pocket had given away. The case had dropped out. But therewas nothing about the case to identify any one as the Gray Seal unlessit were found in one's actual possession. Therefore Whitey Mack, to havesolved his identity, must have seen him drop the case. There could be noquestion about that. It was equally obvious then that Whitey Mack wouldknow the Gray Seal as Larry the Bat. Did he also know him as JimmieDale? Yes, or no? It was a vital question. His life hung on it.
That keen, facile brain, numbed for the moment, was beginning to workwith lightning speed. It was four o'clock that afternoon when he hadassumed the character of Larry the Bat--some time between four o'clockand the present, it was now well after eleven, the case had dropped fromhis pocket. There had been ample time then for Whitey Mack to havemade that appointment with Lannigan--and ample time to have made asurreptitious visit to the Sanctuary. Had Whitey Mack gone there? HadWhitey Mack found that hiding place in the flooring under the oilcloth?Had Whitey Mack discovered that the Gray Seal was not only Larry theBat--but Jimmie Dale?
Jimmie Dale swept his hand across his forehead. It was damp fromlittle clinging beads of moisture. Should he go to the Sanctuary andchange--become Jimmie Dale again? Was it the safest thing to do--or themost dangerous? Even if Whitey Mack had been there and discovered thedual 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 thatevening--or did Whitey Mack know him as Jimmie Dale, and to make itthe more sensational, plan to carry out the coup, say, at the St. JamesClub? Whitey Mack and Lannigan were still at Bristol Bob's; he hadprobably time, if he so elected, to reach the Sanctuary, change, and getaway again. But every minute was priceless now. What should he do? Runfrom the city as he was for cover--or take the gambler's chance? WhiteyMack knew him as Larry the Bat--it was not certain that Whitey Mack knewhim as Jimmie Dale.
He had halted, absorbed, in front of a moving-picture theatre. Greatplacards, at first but a blur of colour, suddenly forced themselves inconcrete form upon his consciousness. Letters a foot high leaped out athim: "THE DOUBLE LIFE." There was the picture of a banker in his privateoffice hastily secreting a forged paper as the hero in the guise of aclerk entered; the companion picture was the banker in convict stripesstaring out from behind the barred doors of a cell. There seemed aghastly augury in the coincidence. Why should a thing like that bethrust upon him to shake his nerve when he needed nerve now more than hehad ever needed it in his life before?
He raised his hand to jerk aimlessly at the brim of his hat, droppedhis hand abruptly to his side again, and started quickly, hurriedly awaythrough 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--itwas Whitey Mack's life or his own! Whitey Mack had said he was the onlyone that was wise--and Whitey Mack had not told Lannigan yet, wouldn'ttell Lannigan until the show-down. If he, Jimmie Dale, got to theSanctuary, became Jimmie Dale and got away again, even if Whitey Mackknew him as Jimmie Dale, there was still a chance. It was his life orWhitey Mack's--Whitey Mack, with his lean-jawed, clean-shaven wolf'sface! If he could get Whitey Mack before the other was ready to tellLannigan! Surely he had the right of self-preservation! Surely his lifewas as valuable as Whitey Mack's, as valuable as a man's who, as thosein the secrets of the underworld knew well enough, had blood upon hishands, who lived by crime, who was a menace to the community! Had he notthe 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 anyother way in event of Whitey Mack knowing him as Jimmie Dale? Hisback was against the wall; he was trapped; certain death, and, worse,dishonour stared him in the face. Lannigan and Whitey Mack would betogether--the odds would be two to one against him--and he had noquarrel 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 thecharacteristic gait of Larry the Bat, but covering the ground withamazing 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 muchtime had he? He turned the corner into the darker cross street. WhiteyMack would have learned from Bristol Bob that Larry the Bat had justbeen there; that is, that Larry the Bat was not at the Sanctuary. WhiteyMack would probably be in no hurry--he and Lannigan might wait untillater, until Whitey Mack should be satisfied that Larry the Bat had gonehome. It was the line of least resistance; they would not attempt toscour the city for him. They might even wait in that private room atBristol Bob's until they decided that it was time to sally out. He mightperhaps still find them there when he got back; at any rate, from therehe must pick up their trail again. On the other hand--all this was butsupposition--they might make at once for the Sanctuary to lie in waitfor him. In any case there was need, desperate need, for haste.
He glanced sharply around him; and, by the side of the tenement housenow that bordered on the alleyway, with a curious, swift, glidingmotion, he seemed to blend into the shadow and darkness. It was theSanctuary, that room on the first floor of the tenement, the tenementthat had three entrances, three exits--a passageway through to thesaloon on the next street that abutted on the rear, the usual frontdoor, and the side door in the alleyway. Gone was the shuffling gait.Quick, alert, he ran, crouching, bent down, along the alleyway, reachedthe side door, opened it stealthily, closed it behind him with equalcaution, 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 inblatant protest, his trained muscles, delicately compensating his bodyweight, carried him upward with a silence that was almost uncanny. Therewas need of silence, as there was need of haste. He was not so surenow of the time at his disposal--that he had even reached the SanctuaryFIRST. 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 thepossibility that Whitey Mack and Lannigan were already above, waitingfor him; but, even if they were not already there and he got away beforethey came, it was imperative that no one should know that Larry the Bathad come and gone.
He reached the landing, and paused again, his right hand, with a viciousmuzzle of his automatic peeping now from between his fingers, throwna little forward. It was black, utterly black, around him. Again thatstealthy, catlike tread--and his ear was at the keyhole of the Sanctuarydoor. A full minute, priceless though it was, passed; then, satisfiedthat the room was empty, he drew his head back from the keyhole, andthose slim, tapering fingers, that in their tips seemed to embodyall the human senses, felt over the lock. Apparently it had beenundisturbed; but that was no proof that Whitey Mack had not been thereafter finding the metal case. Whitey Mack was known to be clever with alock--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. Heclosed the door until it was just ajar, that any sound might reach himfrom 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 thealleyway. He was moving now quick
ly, surely, silently here and there.It was like some weird spectre figure, a little blacker than thesurrounding darkness, flitting about the room. The oilcloth in thecorner was turned back, the loose flooring lifted, the clothes of JimmieDale 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 eradicationof Larry the Bat's make-up from his face, throat, neck, wrists, andhands. 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 placestood Jimmie Dale, the young millionaire, the social lion of New York,immaculate in well-tailored tweeds. He stooped to the hole in theflooring, and, his fingers going unerringly to their hiding place, tookout a black silk mask and an electric flashlight--his automatic wasalready in his possession. His lips parted grimly. Who knew what parta flashlight might not play--and he would need the mask for Lannigan'sbenefit, even if it did not disguise him from Whitey Mack. Had he leftany telltale evidence of his visit? It was almost worth the risk of alight to make sure. He hesitated, then shook his head, and, stoopingagain, carefully replaced the flooring and laid the oilcloth over it--hedared not show a light at any cost.
But now even more caution than before was necessary. At times, thelodgers had naturally enough seen their fellow lodger, Larry the Bat,enter and leave the tenement--none had ever seen Jimmie Dale eitherleave or enter. He stole across the room to the door, halted to assurehimself that the hall was empty, slipped out into the hall, and lockedthe door behind him. Again that trained, long-practiced, silent treadupon the stairs. It seemed as though an hour passed before he reachedthe bottom, and his brain was shrieking at him to hurry, hurry,HURRY! The entryway at last, the door, the alleyway, a long breath ofrelief--and he was on the cross street.
A step, two, he took in the direction of the Bowery--and he was bendingdown 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 hesaw a shadow-like form start out from behind the steps of the house onthe opposite side of the street as he had emerged from the alleyway.In his bent posture, without seemingly turning his head, his eyes sweptsharply 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 theBowery.
Jimmie Dale straightened up nonchalantly, and stooped almost instantlyagain, as though the lace were still proving refractory. Again thatsharp, searching glance. Again--nothing! He went forward now in apparentunconcern; but his right hand, instead of being buried in his coatpocket, swung easily at his side.
It was strange! His ineffective ruse to the contrary, he was certainthat he had not been mistaken. Was it Whitey Mack? Was the questionanswered? Was the Gray Seal known, too, as Jimmie Dale? Were theytrailing him now, with the climax to come at the club, at his ownpalatial home, wherever the surroundings would best lend themselvesto assuaging that inordinate thirst for the sensational that was soessentially a characteristic of the confirmed criminal? What a headlinein the morning's papers it would make!
At the corner he loitered by the curb to light a cigarette--still not asoul in sight on either side of the street behind him, except a coupleof Italians who had just passed by. Strange again! The intuition, if itwere only intuition, was still strong. He swung abruptly on his heel,mingled with the passers-by on the Bowery, walked a rapid half dozensteps until the building hid the cross street, then ran across the roadto the opposite side of the Bowery, and, in a crowd now, came back tothe corner. He crossed from curb to curb slowly, sheltered by a fringeof people that, however, in no way obstructed his view down the sidestreet. And then Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. He had evidentlybeen mistaken, after all. He was overexcited; his nerves were raw--that,perhaps, was the solution. Meanwhile, every minute was counting, ifWhitey Mack and Lannigan should still be at Bristol Bob's.
He kept on down the Bowery, hurrying with growing impatience through thecrowds that massed in front of various places of amusement. He had notintended to come along the Bowery, and, except for what had occurred,would have taken a less frequented street. He would turn off at the nextblock.
He was in front of that moving-picture theatre again. "THE DOUBLELIFE"--his eyes were attracted involuntarily to the lurid, overdonedisplay. It seemed to threaten him; it seemed to dangle before him apremonition 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 turnednight into day in that quarter of the city were clustered thick aroundthe signs, hiving like bees to the bald sensationalism. Almost savagelyhe began to force his way through the crowd--and the next instant, likea man stunned, had stopped in his tracks. His fingers had closed in afierce, spasmodic clutch over an envelope that had been thrust suddenlyinto his hand.
"JIMMIE!" from somewhere came a low, quick voice. "Jimmie, it ishalf-past eleven now--HURRY."
He whirled, scanning wildly this face, then that. It was her voice--HERvoice! 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 distinguishhers--but her face, he had never seen that. Which, out of all the crowdaround him, was hers? Surely he could tell her by her dress; she wouldbe different; her personality alone must single her out. She--
"Say, have youse got de pip, or do youse t'ink youse owns de earth!" aman 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 asudden, overwhelming attack upon him. It was useless--intuitively hehad known it was useless from the instant he had heard her voice. It wasalways the same--always! For years she had eluded him like that, comeupon him without warning and disappeared, but leaving always thattangible proof of her existence--a letter, the call of the Gray Seal toarms. But to-night it was as it had never been before. It was not alonebaffled chagrin now, not alone the longing, the wild desire to see herface, to look into her eyes--it was life and death. She had come at thevery moment when she, perhaps alone of all the world, could have pointedthe way out, when life, liberty, everything that was common to them bothwas at stake, in deadly peril--and she had gone, ignorant of it all,leaving him staggered by the very possibility of the succour that washeld up before his eyes only to be snatched away without power of his tograsp it. His intuition had not been at fault--he had made no mistakein that shadow across the street from the Sanctuary. It had been theTocsin. 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 wayto know that it was she, not Whitey Mack, who had been lurking there;but her persistent, incomprehensible determination to preserve themystery with which she surrounded herself was like now to cost them botha ghastly price. If he could only have had one word with her--just oneword!
The letter in his hand crackled under his clenched fist. He stared atit 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 plannedfor him to execute! He could have laughed aloud at the inhuman mockeryof it. The call of the Gray Seal to arms--NOW! When with every facultydrained to its last resource, cornered, trapped, he was fighting for hisvery existence!
"Jimmie, it is half-past eleven now--HURRY!" The words were janglingdiscordantly in his brain.
And now he laughed outright, mirthlessly. A young girl hanging on herescort's arm, passing, glanced at him and giggled. It was a differentJimmie Dale for the moment. For once his immobility had forsaken him. Helaughed again--a sort of unnatural, desperate indifference to everythingfalling upon him. What did it matter, the moment or two it would take toread the letter? He looked around him. He was on the corner in frontof the Palace Saloon,
and, turning abruptly, he stepped in through theswinging doors. As Larry the Bat, he knew the place well. At the rear ofthe barroom and along the side of the wall were some half dozenlittle stalls, partitioned off from each other. Several of these wereunoccupied, and he chose the one farthest from the entrance. It wasprivate 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 thetable, bidding the other keep the change. He wanted no drink; thetransaction was wholly perfunctory. The waiter was gone; he pushed theglass away from him, and tore the envelope open.
A single sheet, closely written on both sides of the paper, was in hishand. 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 everwritten him before, had been omitted. His eyes traversed the first fewlines with that strange indifference that had settled upon him. What,after all, did it matter what it was; he could do nothing--not even savehimself probably. And then, with a little start, he read the lines overagain, muttering snatches from them.
". . . Max Diestricht--diamonds--the Ross-Logan stones--wedding--slidingpanel in wall of workshop--end of the room near window--ten boards tothe right from side wall--press small knot in the wood in the centre ofthe tenth board--to-night . . ."
It brought a sudden thrill of excitement to Jimmie Dale that, impossibleas he would have believed it an instant ago, for the moment overshadowedthe realisation of his own peril. A robbery such as that, if it wereever accomplished, would stir the country from end to end; it would setNew York by the ears; it would loose the police in full cry like a packof bloodhounds with their leashes slipped. The society columns of thenewspapers had been busy for months featuring the coming marriage of theRoss-Logans' daughter to one of the country's young merchant princes.The combined fortunes of the two families would make the young couplethe richest in America. The prospective groom's wedding gift was to bea diamond necklace of perfectly matched, large stones that would eclipseanything of the kind in the country. Europe, the foreign markets, hadbeen literally combed and ransacked to supply the gems. The stones hadarrived in New York the day before, the duty on them alone amounting toover fifty thousand dollars. All this had appeared in the papers.
Jimmie Dale's brows drew together in a frown. On just exactly whatpercentage the duty was figured he did not know; but it was highenough on the basis of fifty thousand dollars to assume safely that theassessed 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 soundestkind of an investment. Furthermore, through personal acquaintance withthe "high contracting parties," who were in his own set, he knew it tobe true.
He shrugged his shoulders. The papers, too, had thrown the limelight onMax Diestricht, who, though for quite a time the fashion in the socialworld, had, up to the present, been comparatively unknown to the averageNew Yorker. His own knowledge of Max Diestricht went deeper than thesuperficial biography furnished by the newspapers--the old Hollanderhad done more than one piece of exquisite jewelry work for him. The oldfellow was a character that beggared description, eccentric to the pointof extravagance, and deaf as a post; but, in craftmanship, a modernCellini. He employed no workmen, lived alone over his shop on one ofthe lower streets between Fifth and Sixth Avenues near WashingtonSquare--and possessed a splendid contempt for such protectivecontrivances as safes and vaults. If his prospective patronsexpostulated on this score before intrusting him with their valuables,they were at liberty to take their work elsewhere. It was Max Diestrichtwho honoured you by accepting the commission; not you who honoured MaxDiestricht 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; donot look farther; come and get me!' Yes? It is to explode with thenitro-glycerin--POUF!--and I am deaf and I hear nothing. It is afoolishness, that"--he had a habit of prodding at one with a levelledfore-finger--"every night somewhere they are robbed, and have I beenrobbed? HEIN, tell me that; have I been robbed?"
It was true. In ten years, though at times having stones and preciousmetal aggregating large amounts deposited with him by his customers, MaxDiestricht had never lost so much as the gold filings. There was aqueer smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now. The knot in the tenth boardwas significant! Max Diestricht was scrupulously honest, a genius inoriginality and conception of design, a master in the perfection anddelicacy of his finished work--he had been commissioned to design andset the Ross-Logan necklace.
The brain works quickly. All this and more had flashed almostinstantaneously through Jimmie Dale's mind. His eyes fell to the letteragain, and he read on. Halfway through, a sudden whiteness blanchedhis face, and, following it, a surging tide of red that mounted to histemples. It dazed him; it seemed to rob him for the moment of thepower of coherent thought. He was wrong; he had not read aright. It wasincredible, dare-devil beyond belief--and yet in its very audacity laysuccess. He finished the letter, read it once more--and his fingersmechanically began to tear it into little shreds. His brain was in awhirl, a vortex of conflicting emotions. Had Whitey Mack and Lanniganleft 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 thrustthem suddenly into his pocket, and jerked out his watch. It was nearlymidnight. The broad, muscular shoulders seemed to square back curiously,the jaws to clamp a little, the face to harden and grow cold until itwas like stone. With a swift movement he emptied his glass into thecuspidor, set the glass back on the table, and stepped out from thestall. His destination was Max Diestricht's.
The Palace Saloon was near the upper end of the Bowery, and, failing ataxicab, of which none was in sight, his quickest method was to walk,and he started briskly forward. It was not far; and it was barelyten minutes from the time he had left the Palace Saloon when he swungthrough Washington Square to Fifth Avenue, and, a moment later, turnedfrom that thoroughfare, heading west toward Sixth Avenue, along one ofthose streets which, with the city's northward trend, had quite lostany distinctive identity, and from being once a modestly fashionableresidential section had now become a conglomerate potpourri of smalltradesmen's stores, shops and apartments of the poorer class. He knewMax Diestricht's--he could well have done without the aid of the arclamp which, even if dimly, indicated that low, almost tumble-down,two-story structure tucked away between the taller buildings on eitherside that almost engulfed it. It was late. The street was quiet. Theshops and stores had long since been closed, Max Diestricht's amongthem--the old Hollanders' name in painted white letters stood outagainst the background of a darkened workshop window. In the storyabove, the lights, too, were out; Max Diestricht was probably fastasleep--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 standingnonchalantly for a moment in a doorway? It was only for a moment. Thosemaster fingers of Jimmie Dale were working surely, swiftly, silently. Alittle steel instrument that was never out of his possession was in thelock and out again. The door opened, closed; he drew the black silk maskfrom his pocket and slipped it over his face. Immediately in front ofhim the stairs led upward; immediately to his right was the door intothe 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 stoodfor a moment silent, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound,reconstructing the plan of his surroundings in his mind as he rememberedit. It was a narrow, oblong room, running the entire depth of thebuilding, a very long room, blank walls on either side, a window in themiddle of the rear wall that gave on a back yard, and from the back yardthere was access to the
lane; also, as he remembered the place, it wasa riot of disorder, with workbenches and odds and ends strewn withoutsystem or reason in every direction--one had need of care to negotiateit in the dark. He took his flashlight from his pocket, and, preliminaryto a more intimate acquaintance with the interior, glanced out throughthe front window near which he stood--and, with a suppressed cry, shrankback 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 OFHEADQUARTERS AND WHITEY MACK! The quick intake of Jimmie Dale breath wassucked through clenched teeth. They were close on his heels then--farcloser than he had imagined. It would take Whitey Mack scarcely anylonger to open that front door than it had taken him. Close on hisheels! His face was rigid. He could hear them now at the door. Theflashlight in his hand winked down the length of the room. If was adangerous thing to do, but it was still more dangerous to stumble intosome object and make a noise. He darted forward, circuiting a workbench,a stool, a small hand forge. Again the flashlight gleamed. Against theside wall, near the rear, was another workbench, with a sort of coarsecanvas curtain hanging part way down in front of it, evidently toprotect such things as might be stored away beneath it from dust,and Jimmie Dale sprang for it, whipped back the canvas, and crawledunderneath. He was not an instant too soon. As the canvas fell back intoplace, 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 echoraucously 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 himgo the limit, and we don't either of us make a move till he's pinchedthem, 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 gettingout--this door and window here, and a window that's down there at theback. 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 fromWhitey 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 cautiouslyfeeling ahead of him for possible obstacles. Jimmie Dale for a momentheld his breath. He could have reached out and touched the man as theother passed. Whitey Mack went on until he had taken up a positionagainst the rear wall. Jimmie Dale heard him as he brushed against it.
Then silence fell. He was between them now. Stretched full length on thefloor, Jimmie Dale raised the lower portion of the canvas away fromin front of his face. He could see nothing; the place was in Stygianblackness; but it had been close and stifling, and, at least, it gavehim more air.
The minutes dragged by--each more interminable than the one thathad gone before. Not a movement, not a sound, and then, through thestillness, very faint at first, came the regular, repressed breathingof Whitey Mack, who was much the nearer of the two men. And, oncenoticeable, almost imperceptible as it was it seemed to pervade the roomand fill it with a strange, ominous resonance that rose and fell untilthe blackness palpitated with it.
Slowly, very slowly, Jimmie Dale's hand crept into his pocket--and creptout again with his automatic. He lay motionless once more. Time in anyconcrete sense ceased to exist. Fancied shapes began to assume formin the darkness. By the door, Lannigan stirred uneasily, shifting hisposition slightly.
Was it hours--was it only minutes? It seemed to ring through thenerve-racking stillness like the shriek of a hurtling shell--and it wasonly a whisper.
"Watch yourself, Lannigan," whispered Whitey Mack. "He's coming nowthrough the yard! Don't move till I start something. Let him get hispaws on the sparklers."
Silence again. And then a low rasping at the window, like the gnawing ofa rat; then, inch by inch, the sash was lifted. There was the sound asof a body forcing its way over the sill cautiously, then a step upon thefloor inside, another, and still another. The figure of a man loomed upsuddenly against the glow of a flashlight as he threw the round, whiteray inquisitively here and there over the rear wall. And now he appearedto be counting the boards. One, two, three--ten. His hand ran up anddown the tenth board. Again and again he repeated the operation, andsomething like the snarl of a baited beast echoed through the room. Hehalf turned to snatch at something in his pocket, and the light fora moment showed a black-bearded, lowering face, partially hidden by apeaked cap that was pulled far down over his eyes.
There was the rip and tear of rending wood, as a steel jimmy, in lieu ofthe 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 theflashlight. The man chuckled hoarsely, and began to cram the rest of theboxes into his pockets.
Jimmie Dale stirred. On hands and knees he was creeping now from beneaththe workbench. Something caught and tore behind him--the canvas curtain.And at the sound, with a sharp cry, the man at the wall whirled, thelight went out, and he sprang toward the window. Jimmie Dale gained hisfeet and leaped forward. A revolver shot cut a lane of fire through theblackness; and, above the roar of the report, Whitey Mack's voice in afierce yell:
"It's all right, Lannigan! I got him! No--HELL!" There was a terrificcrash of breaking glass. "He's got away!"
"Not yet, he hasn't!" gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth, and hisclubbed revolver swung crashing to the head of a dark form in front ofhim.
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 thedroplight, over the end of the bench, that he had knocked against inhis own rush. His fingers clutched it--and the lower end of the shop wasflooded with light. Except for his felt hat that lay a little distanceaway, 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'sgems, lay sprawled, inert, upon the floor, and Lannigan was staring intothe muzzle of Jimmie Dale's automatic.
"Drop that gun, Lannigan!" said Jimmie Dale coolly. "And I'll troubleyou 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 stepforward, and Jimmie Dale's toe sent it spinning under a bench. Anotherstep, and, his revolver still covering the other, he had whipped a pairof handcuffs from the officer's side pocket.
Lannigan, as though the thought had never occurred to him, offered noresistance. He was staring in a dazed sort of way back and forth fromJimmie 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 leftone. Thank you"--as the handcuff snapped shut. "Now go over there andsit down on the floor beside that fellow. QUICK!" Jimmie Dale's voicerasped suddenly, imperatively.
Still bewildered, but a little sullen now, Lannigan obeyed. Jimmie Dalestooped quickly, and snapped the other link of the handcuff over theunconscious man's right wrist.
Jimmie Dale smiled.
"That's the approved way of taking your man, isn't it? Left wrist to theprisoner's right. He's only stunned; he'll be around in a moment. Knowhim?"
Lannigan shook his head.
"Take a good look at him," invited Jimmie Dale. "You ought to know mostof them in the business."
Lannigan bent over a little closer, and then, with an amazed cry, hisfree hand shot forward and tore away the ot
her's beard.
IT WAS WHITEY MACK!
"My God!" gasped Lannigan.
"Quite so!" said Jimmie Dale evenly. "You'll find the diamonds in hispockets, and, excuse me"--his fingers were running through Whitey Mack'sclothes--"ah, here it is"--the thin metal case was in his hand--"alittle article that belongs to me, and whose loss, I am free to admit,caused me considerable concern until I was informed that he had onlyfound it without having the slightest idea as to whom it belonged.It made quite a difference!" He had opened the case carelessly beforeLannigan's eyes. "'The Gray Seal!' I'll say it for you," said JimmieDale whimsically. "This is what probably put the idea into his head,after first, in some way, having discovered old Max Diestricht's hidingplace; and, if I had given him time enough, he would probably have stuckone of these seals, in clumsy imitation of that little eccentricity ofmine, on the wall over there to stamp the job as genuine. You begin toget it, don't you Lannigan? Pretty sure-fire as an alibi, eh? And he'dhave got away with it, too, as far as you were concerned. He had onlyto fire that shot, smash the window, tuck his false beard, mustache, andpeaked cap into his pocket, put on his own hat that you see there on thefloor--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, andthat, known as the slickest diamond thief in the country, he would bethe first to be suspected--except that the police themselves, in theperson of Inspector Lannigan of headquarters, would be prepared to provea perfectly good alibi for him."
Lannigan's head was thrust forward; his eyes, hard, were riveted onWhitey Mack.
"My God!" he said again under his breath. Then fiercely: "He'll get hisfor this!"
It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke; he was musingly examining theautomatic 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, obviousthat an alarm raised by you might prove extremely awkward, but a pieceof canvas from that bench there, together with a bit of string, wouldmake a most effective gag. I prefer, however, not to submit you to thatindignity. Instead, I offer you the alternative of giving me your wordto 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 placewas in darkness. There was a moment, two, of utter stillness; thensoftly, from the front end of the shop, a whisper:
"If I were you, Lannigan, I'd take that gun from Whitey's pocket beforehe comes round and beats you to it."
And the door had closed silently behind Jimmie Dale.