CHAPTER XI
THE STOOL-PIGEON
In the subway, ten minutes before, a freckled-faced messenger boy hadsqueezed himself into a seat beside Jimmie Dale, yanked a dime novelfrom a refractory pocket, and, blissfully lost to all the world, hadburied his head in its pages. Jimmie Dale's glance at the youngster hadequally, perforce, embraced the lurid title of the thriller, "Dicingwith Death," so imperturbably thrust under his nose. At the time, he hadsmiled indulgently; but now, as he left the subway and headed for hishome on Riverside Drive, the words not only refused to be ignored, buthad resolved themselves into a curiously persistent refrain in hismind. They were exactly what they purported to be, dime-novelish, ofthe deepest hue of yellow, melodramatic in the extreme; but also, to himnow, they were grimly apt and premonitorily appropriate. "Dicing withDeath"--there was not an hour, not a moment in the day, when he was notliterally dicing with death; when, with the underworld and the policeallied against him, a single false move would lose him the throw thatleft death the winner!
The risk of the dual life enforced upon him grew daily greater, and inthe end there must be the reckoning. He would have been a madman to haveshut 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 evennow. To-night, to-morrow, the day after, would come another letterfrom the Tocsin, and there would be another "crime" of the Gray Seal'sblazoned in the press--would that be the last affair, or would therebe another--or to-night, to-morrow, the day after, would he be trappedbefore even one more letter came!
He shrugged his shoulders, as he ran up the steps of his house. Thosewere the stakes that he himself had laid on the table to wager upon thegame, he had no quarrel there; but if only, before the end came, or evenwith 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 broadstaircase, his steps noiseless on the heavy carpet. Below, faintly, hecould hear some of the servants--they evidently had not heard him closethe door behind him. Discipline was relaxed somewhat, it was quiteapparent, with Jason, that peer of butlers, away. Jason, poor chap, wasin the hospital. Typhoid, they had thought it at first, though it hadturned out to be some milder form of infection. He would be back in afew 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 ofhis own particular den, opened the door, closed it behind him--and in aninstant the keen, agile brain, trained to the little things that neverescaped it, that daily held his life in the balance, was alert. The roomwas unusually dark, even for night-time. It was as though the windowshades had been closely drawn--a thing Jason never did. But then Jasonwasn't there! Jimmie Dale, smiling then a little quizzically at himself,reached up for the electric-light switch beside the door, pressedit--and, his finger still on the button, whipped his automatic from hispocket with his other hand. THE ROOM WAS STILL IN DARKNESS.
The smile on Jimmie Dale's lips was gone, for his lips now had closedtogether in a tight, drawn line. The lights in the rest of the house, aswitness the reception hall, were in order. This was no ACCIDENT! Silent,motionless, he stood there, listening. Was he trapped at last--in hisown house! By whom? The police? The thugs of the underworld? It madelittle difference--the end would differ only in the method by which itwas attained! What was that! Was there a slight stir, a movement at thelower end of the room--or was it his imagination? His hand fell from theelectric-light switch to the doorknob behind his back. Slowly, withouta sound, it began to turn under his slim, tapering fingers, whose deft,sensitive touch had made him known and feared as the master cracksman ofthem all; and, as noiselessly, the door began to open.
It was like a duel--a duel of silence. What was the intruder, whoever hemight be, waiting for? The abortive click of the electric-light switch,to say nothing of the opening of the door when he had entered, wasevidence enough that he was there. Was the other trying to place himexactly through the darkness to make sure of his attack! The door wasopen now. And suddenly Jimmie Dale laughed easily aloud--and on theinstant shifted his position.
"Well?" inquired Jimmie Dale coolly from the other side of thethreshold.
It seemed like a long-drawn sigh fluttering through the room, a gasp ofrelief--and then the blood was pounding madly at his temples, and he wasback 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 hishouse!
"You!" he cried. "You--here!" He was pressing the electric-light switchfrantically, 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 offthe lights."
"At the sockets--of course!" He laughed out the words almosthysterically. "Your face--I have never seen your face, you know." He wasmoving quickly toward the reading lamp on his desk.
There was a quick, hurried swish of garments, and she was blocking hisway.
"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 handsreached out for her, touched her, and thrilling at the touch, swept hertoward him.
"Jimmie--Jimmie--are you mad!" she breathed.
Mad! Yes--he was mad with the wildest, most passionate exhilaration hehad ever known. He found his voice with an effort.
"These months and years that I have tried until my soul was sick to findyou!" he cried out. "And you are here now! Your face--I must see yourface!"
She had wrenched herself away from him. He could hear her breath comingsharply 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 tolight it."
He stopped abruptly.
"My--honour?" he repeated mechanically.
"Yes! I came here to-night because there was no other way. No otherway--do you understand? I came, trusting to your honour not to takeadvantage of the conditions that forced me to do this. I had no fearthat 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 Icame--unknown. Is there any question about it, Jimmie? I am in YOURhouse."
"You don't know what you are saying!" he burst out wildly. "I've riskedmy 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 thatI might discover who you are--and do you think I'll let anything stop menow! I tell you, no--a thousand times no!"
She made no answer. There was only her low, quick breathing coming fromsomewhere near him. He made another step toward the lamp--and stopped.
"I tell you, no!" he said again, and took another step forward--andstopped once more.
Still she made no answer. A minute passed--another. His hand lifted andswept across his forehead in an agitated way. Still silence. She neithermoved 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 torecognise his own voice--"the hundred other things I've sworn I'd makeyou 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 theunderworld, our house of cards is likely to collapse at any minute--thatthey are hunting the Gray Seal day and night! Is it to be always likethis--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. "Andsome day, I p
romise you now, you shall have your reward for to-night.You shall know--everything."
"When?" The word came from him with fierce eagerness.
"I do not know," she answered gently. "Soon, perhaps--perhaps soonerthan either of us imagine."
"And by that you mean--what?" he asked, and his hand reached out for heragain through the blackness.
This time she did not draw away. There was an instant's hesitation; thenshe spoke again hurriedly, a note of anxiety in her voice.
"You are beginning all over again, aren't you, Jimmie? And I have toldyou that to-night I can explain nothing. And, besides, it is what hasbrought me here that counts now, and every moment is of--"
"Yes. I know," he interposed; "but, then, at least you will tell me onething: Why did you come to-night, instead of sending me a letter as youalways have before?"
"Because it is different to-night than it ever was before," she repliedearnestly. "Because there is something in what has happened that Icannot explain myself; because there is danger, and where I could notsee 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 thatwith 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 ownhouse, he was listening to another call to arms for the Gray Seal fromher own lips! Honour! Was he but a poor, quixotic fool! He had onlyto step to the desk and switch on the light! Why should--he steadiedhimself with a jerk, and drew away his hand. She was in HIS house. "Goon," 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, whoboasted of the half dozen prison sentences already to his credit? Yes;he knew Connie Myers! But, strangely enough, it was not in the Bad Landsor as Larry the Bat that he knew the man, or that the other knew him--itwas as Jimmie Dale. Connie Myers had introduced himself one nightseveral years ago with a blackjack that had just missed its mark as theman had jumped out from a dark alleyway on the East Side, and he, JimmieDale, had thrashed the other to within an inch of his life. He hadreason to know Connie Myers--and Connie Myers had reason to rememberhim!
"Yes," he said, with a grim smile; "I know Connie Myers."
"And the tenement across the street from where you live as Larry theBat--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 strangestory. This Luther Doyle was already over fifty, when, some eight ornine years ago, his parents died within a few months of each other,and he inherited somewhere in the neighbourhood of a hundred thousanddollars; but the man, though harmless enough, was mildly insane,half-witted, queer, and the old couple, on account of their son's mentaldefects, took care to leave the money securely invested, and so that hecould only touch the interest. During these eight or nine years he haslived by himself in the same old family house where he had lived withhis parents, in a lonely spot near Pelham. And he has lived in a mostfrugal, even miserly, manner. His income could not have been less thansix thousand dollars a year, and his expenditures could not have beenmore than six hundred. His dementia, ironically enough from the day thathe came into his fortune, took the form of a most pitiable and abjectfear that he would die in poverty, misery, and want; and so, year afteryear, cashing his checks as fast as he got them, never trusting the bankwith a penny, he kept hiding away somewhere in his house every cent hecould scrape and save from his income--which to-day must amount, at aminimum 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 moneywas too securely hidden. Twice he broke into Doyle's house when the oldman was out, but on both occasions was unsuccessful in his search, andwas interrupted and forced to make his escape on account of Doyle'sreturn. To-night, an hour ago, in an empty room on the second floorof that tenement, in the room facing the landing, old Luther Doyle wasMURDERED!"
There was silence for an instant. Her hand had closed in a tightpressure on his arm. The darkness seemed to add a sort of ghastlysignificance to her words.
"In God's name, how do you know all this?" he demanded wildly. "How doyou know all these things?
"Does that matter now?" she answered tensely. "You will know that whenyou know the rest. Oh, don't you understand, Jimmie, there is not amoment to lose now? It was easy to lure a half-witted creature like thatanywhere; it was Connie Myers who lured him to the tenement and murderedhim there--but from that point, Jimmie, I am not sure of our ground. Ido not know whether Connie Myers is alone in this or not; but I do knowthat he is going to Doyle's house again to-night to make another searchfor the money. There is no question but that old Doyle was murdered togive Connie Myers and his accomplices, if there are any, a chance totear the house inside out to find the money, to give them the wholenight to work in without interruption if necessary--but Doyle dead inhis own house could have interfered no more with them than Doyle dead inthat tenement! Why was he lured to the tenement by Connie Myers when hecould much more easily have been put out of the way in his own house?Jimmie, there is something behind this, something more that you mustfind out. There may be others in this besides Connie Myers, I do notknow; but there is something here that I am afraid of. Jimmie, you mustget that man, you must get the others if there are others, and youmust stop them from getting the money in that house to-night! Do youunderstand 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 thoughthere were no need for the Gray Seal--that simply the police should benotified. But I KNOW, Jimmie, call it intuition, what you will, I knowthat there is need for us, for you to-night--that behind all this is atragedy, deeper, blacker, than even the brutal, cold-blooded murder thatis already done."
Her voice, in its passionate earnestness, died away; and an anger,cold, grim, remorseless, settled upon Jimmie Dale--settled as it alwayssettled upon him at her call to arms. His brain was already at work inits quick, instant way, probing, sifting, planning. She was right! Itwas strange, it was more than strange that, with the added risk, thedanger, the difficulty, the man should have been brought miles to bedone away with in that tenement! Why? Connie Myers took form beforehim--the coarse features, the tawny hair that straggled across the lowforehead, the shifty eyes that were an indeterminate colour betweenbrown and gray, the thin lips that seemed to draw in and give the jawa protruding, belligerent effect. And Connie Myers knew him as JimmieDale--it would have to be then as Larry the Bat that the Gray Seal mustwork. That meant time--to go to the Sanctuary and change.
"The police," he asked suddenly, aloud, "they have not yet discoveredthe body?"
"Not yet," she replied hurriedly. "And that is still another reasonfor haste--there is no telling when they will. See--here!" She thrusta paper into his hand. "Here is a plan of old Doyle's house, anddirections for finding it. You must get Connie Myers red-handed, youmust make him convict himself, for the evidence through which I know himto be guilty can never be used against him. And, Jimmie, be careful--Iknow 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 himacross the room toward the door.
Go! The word seemed suddenly to bring dismay. It was she again who wasdominant now in his mind. Who knew if to-night, when he was taking hislife 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 newn
ote of tenderness in her voice that thrilled him.
"You must never let them get you, Jimmie--for my sake. It will not lastmuch 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 stoodhesitant at the door. It seemed that every faculty he possessed urgedhim back there again--to her. Could he let her escape him now when shewas so utterly in his power, she who meant everything in his life! Andthen, like a cold shock, came that other thought--she who had trusted tohis honour! With a jerk, his hand swept out, felt for the doorknob, andclosed 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 hisway again to the subway, that nothing was concrete around him, thathe was living through some fantastical dream. His head whirled, and hecould not think rationally--and then slowly, little by little, his gripupon himself came back. She had come--and gone! With the roar of thesubway in his ears, its raucous note seeming to strike so perfectly inconsonance with the turmoil within him, he smiled mirthlessly. Afterall, it was as it always was! She was gone--and ahead of him lay thechances of the night!
"Dicing with death!" The words, unbidden, came back once more. If theywere true before, they were doubly applicable now. It was differentto-night from what it had ever been before, as she had said. Usually, tothe smallest detail, everything was laid open, clear before him inthose astounding letters. To-night, it was vague at best. A man had beenmurdered. Connie Myers had committed the murder under circumstances thatpointed strongly to some hidden motive behind and beyond the mere chanceit afforded him to search his victim's house for the hidden cash. Whatwas it?
Jimmie Dale stared out at the black subway walls. The answer would notcome. Station after station passed. At Fourteenth Street he changed fromthe express to a local, got out at Astor Place, and a few minutes laterwas walking rapidly down the upper end of the Bowery.
The answer would not come--only the fact itself grew more and moredeeply significant. The ghastly, callous fiendishness that lured anold, 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 wascertain--HE WOULD GET CONNIE MYERS!
He was close to the Sanctuary now--it was down the next cross street. Hereached the corner and turned it, heading east; but his brisk walk hadchanged to a nonchalant saunter--there were some people coming towardhim. It was the Gray Seal now, alert and cautious. The little grouppassed by. Ahead, the tenement bordering on the black alleyway loomedup--the Sanctuary, with its three entrances and exits; the home of Larrythe Bat. And across from it was that other tenement, that held a newinterest 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 thinkingquickly now, and shook his head. It would take what he did not have tospare--time. It was already ten o'clock; and, granted that Connie Myershad committed the crime only a little over an hour ago, the man by thistime 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--thequestion resolved itself simply into how long, since he had alreadysearched twice and failed on both occasions, it would take Connie Myersto 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 sideentrance. A moment more, and he had negotiated the rickety stairs withpracticed, soundless tread, was inside the squalid quarters of Larry theBat, and the door of the Sanctuary was locked and bolted behind him.
Perhaps five minutes passed--and then, where Jimmie Dale, themillionaire, had entered, there emerged Larry the Bat, of thearistocracy and the elite of the Bad Lands. But instead of leaving bythe side door and the alleyway, as he had entered, he went along thelower hallway to the front entrance. And here, instinctively, he pauseda moment at the top of the steps, as his eyes rested upon the tenementon 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 secondstory. He had decided once that he would not go, that there was nottime; but, after all, it would not take long, and there was at least thepossibility of gaining something more valuable even than time from thescene of the crime itself--there might even be the evidence he wantedthere 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 thedoorway. It was dark in the street; and, likewise, it was one of thosehot, suffocating evenings when, in the crowded tenements of the poorerclass, miserable enough in any case, misery was added to a hundredfoldfor 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 onthe doorstep; but now, as he reached the curb, he not only saw, butrecognised her--and he swung on down the street toward the Bowery. Hecould not very well go in without passing her, without being recognisedhimself--and that was a needless risk.
He smiled a little wanly. Once the crime was discovered, she would nothave hesitated long before informing the police that she had seen himenter there! Mrs. Hagan was no friend of his! One could not live as hehad lived, as Larry the Bat, and not see something in an intimate wayof the pitiful little tragedies of the poor around him; for, bad, tough,and dissolute as the quarter was, all were not degraded there, some weresimply--poor. Mrs. Hagan was poor. Her husband was a day labourer, oftenout 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 hadfound Mike Hagan drunk one night, and in the act of being arrested, andhad wheedled the man away from the officer on the promise that he wouldtake Hagan home. And he was Larry the Bat, a dope fiend, a characterknown to all the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Hagan had laid her husband'scondition to HIS influence and companionship! He had taken Mike Haganhome--and Mrs. Hagan had driven Larry the Bat from the door of hermiserable one-room lodging in that tenement with the bitter words onher tongue that only a woman can use when shame and grief and anger arebreaking her heart.
He shrugged his shoulders, as, back along the Bowery, he retraced hissteps, but now, with the hurried shuffle of Larry the Bat where beforehad been the brisk, athletic stride of Jimmie Dale.
At Astor Place again, he took the subway, this time to the GrandCentral Station--and, well within an hour from the time he had left theSanctuary, including the train journey to Pelham, he was standing in aclump of trees that fringed a deserted roadway. He had passed but fewhouses, 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 oneof old Luther Doyle's that showed up black and shadowy just beyond thetrees.
Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the place. It was littlewonder that, known to have money, an attempt to rob old Doyle shouldhave been made in a place like this! It was even more grimly significantthan ever of some deeper meaning that, in its loneliness an ideal placefor a murder, the man should have been lured from there for that purposeto a crowded tenement in the city instead! What did it mean? Why hadit been done? He shook his head. The answer would not come now any morethan 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 ofhis surroundings: the trees on either side; the open space in front, adistance 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 aboutthe house. Was it possible that Connie Myers was not yet there? Heshook his head again impatiently. Connie Myers would not have wasted anytime--as the Tocsin had said, there was always present the possibilitythat 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 theywould be out here hotfoot. Jimmie Dale stood suddenly still. What did itmean! He had not thought of that before! If old Doyle had been murderedHERE, there would not have been even the possibility of discovery untilthe morning at the earliest, and Connie Myers would have had all thetime he wanted!
WHAT WAS THAT SOUND! A low, muffled tapping, like a succession of hammerblows, came from within the house. Jimmie Dale darted forward, reachedthe side of the house, and dropped on hands and knees. One question atleast 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 rearand, in a moment, creeping along, he came upon it. His hands felt overit. It was shut, fastened by a padlock on the outside. Jimmie Dale'slips thinned a little, as he took a small steel instrument from hispocket. Either through inadvertence or by intention, Connie Myers hadpassed 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 connectionbetween the cellar and the house, as shown on the Tocsin's plan, wasthrough another trapdoor in the floor of the kitchen.
Jimmie Dale's flashlight played on a short, ladderlike stairway, andin an instant he was climbing upward. The sounds from the front of thehouse continued now without interruption; there was little fear thatConnie Myers would hear anything else--even the protesting squeak ofthe hinges as Jimmie Dale cautiously pushed back the trapdoor in theflooring above his head. An inch, two inches he lifted it; and, his eyeson a level with the opening now, he peered into the room. The kitchenitself was intensely dark; but through an open doorway, well to oneside so that he could not see into the room beyond, there struggleda curiously faint, dim glimmer of light. And then Jimmie Dale's formstraightened rigidly on the stairs. The blows stopped, and a voice, in alow 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. JimmieDale'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 pushedthe trapdoor wide open, swung himself up through the opening to thefloor; 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 stealingthrough the tightly drawn window shades, burned a small oil lamp. Theplace was in utter confusion. The right-hand side of a large fireplace,made of rough, untrimmed stone and cement, and which occupied almostthe entire end of the room, was already practically demolished, andthe wreckage was littered everywhere; part of the furniture was piledunceremoniously into one corner out of the way; and at the fireplaceitself, working with sledge and bar, were two men. One was Connie Myers.An ironical glint crept into Jimmie Dale's eyes. The false beard andmustache the man wore would deceive no one who knew Connie Myers! Andthat he should be wearing them now, as he knelt holding the bar whilethe other struck at it, seemed both uncalled for and absurd. The otherman, heavily built, roughly dressed, had his back turned, and JimmieDale could not see his face.
The puzzled frown on Jimmie Dale's forehead deepened. Somewhere in themasonry of the fireplace, of course, was where old Luther Doyle hadhidden his money. That was quite plain enough; and that Connie Myers, insome way or other, had made sure of that fact was equally obvious. Buthow did old Luther Doyle get his money IN there from time to time, as hereceived the interest and dividends whose accumulation, according to theTocsin, comprised his hoard! And how did he get it OUT again?
"All right, that'll do!" grunted Connie Myers suddenly. "We can pry thisone out now. Lend a hand on the bar!"
The other dropped his sledge, turned sideways as he stooped to helpConnie Myers, his face came into view--and, with an involuntary start,Jimmie Dale crouched farther back against the wall, as he stared at theother. 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 wasnot so strange now! A surge of anger swept Jimmie Dale--and was engulfedin a wave of pity. Somehow, the thin, tired face of Mrs. Hagan had risenbefore him, and she seemed to be pleading with him to go away, to leavethe house, to forget that he had ever been there, to forget what hehad seen, what he was seeing now. His hands clenched fiercely. Howrealistically, how importunately, how pitifully she took form beforehim! She was on her knees, clasping his knees, imploring him, terrified.
From Jimmie Dale's pocket came the black silk mask. Slowly, almosthesitantly, 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 ahardened, confirmed criminal like Connie Myers. Mike Hagan--a murderer!It would have been unbelievable but for the evidence before his owneyes now. The man had faults, brawled enough, and drank enough to havebrought him several times to the notice of the police--but this!
Jimmie Dale's eyes had never left the scene before him. Both men werethrowing their weight upon the bar, and the stone that they were tryingto dislodge--they were into the heart of the masonry now--seemed tomove a little. Connie Myers stood up, and, leaning forward, examined thestone critically at top and bottom, prodding it with the bar. He turnedfrom 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 barinto 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 toparalyse all action of mind and body. There was a low cry that was morea moan, the clang of the iron bar clattering on the floor, and MikeHagan had pitched forward on his face, an inert and huddled heap. A halflaugh, half snarl purled from Connie Myers' lips, as he snatched a stoutpiece of cord from his pocket and swiftly knotted the unconscious man'swrists together. Another instant, and, picking up the bar, prying withit again, the loosened stone toppled with a crash into the grate.
It had come sudden as the crack of doom, that blow--too quick, toounexpected for Jimmie Dale to have lifted a finger to prevent it. Andnow that the first numbed shock of mingled horror and amazement waspast, he fought back the quick, fierce impulse to spring out on ConnieMyers. Whether the man was killed or only stunned, he could do no goodto Mike Hagan now, and there was Connie Myers--he was staring in afascinated way at Connie Myers. Behind the stone that the other had justdislodged was a large hollow space that had been left in the masonry,and from this now Connie Myers was eagerly collecting handfuls ofbanknotes that were rolled up into the shape of little cylinders, eachone grotesquely tied with a string. The man was feverishly excited,muttering to himself, running from the fireplace to where the table hadbeen pushed aside with the rest of the furniture, dropping the curiouslittle rolls of money on the table, and running back for more. And then,having apparently emptied the receptacle, he wriggled his body overthe dismantled fireplace, stuck his head into the opening, and peeredupward.
"Kinks in his nut, kinks in his nut!" Connie Myers was muttering. "I'lldrop the bar through from the top, mabbe there's some got stuck in thepipe.
"
He regained his feet, picked up the bar, and ran with it into what wasevidently the front hall--then his steps sounded running upstairs.
Like a flash, Jimmie Dale was across the room and at the fireplace. LikeConnie 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 showsigns of returning consciousness. There was a rattle, a clang, athud--and the bar, too long to come all the way through, dropped intothe opening and stood upright. Connie Myers' footsteps sounded again,returning on the run--and Jimmie Dale was back once more on the otherside of the kitchen doorway.
It was all simple enough--once one understood! The same queer smilewas still flickering on Jimmie Dale's lips. There was no way to get themoney out, except the way Connie Myers had got it out--by digging itout! With the irrational cunning of his mad brain, that had put themoney even beyond his own reach, old Doyle had built his fireplace witha 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 ofbanknotes, satisfied that his hoard was safe! There seemed somethingpitifully ironic in the elaborate, insane craftiness of the old man'sfear-twisted, demented mind.
And now Connie Myers was back in the room again--and again a puzzledexpression settled upon Jimmie Dale's face as he watched the other. Forperhaps a minute the man stood by the table sifting the little rolls ofmoney through his fingers gloatingly--then, impulsively, he pushed theseto one side, produced a revolver, laid it on the table, and from anotherpocket took out a little case which, as he opened it, Jimmie Dale couldsee contained a hypodermic syringe. One more article followed the othertwo--a letter, which Connie Myers took out of an unsealed envelope. Hedropped this suddenly on the table, as Mike Hagan, three feet away onthe floor, groaned and sat up.
Hagan's eyes swept, bewildered, confused, around him, questioninglyat Connie Myers--and then, resting suddenly on his bound wrists, theynarrowed menacingly.
"Damn you, you smashed me with that sledge on PURPOSE!" he burstout--and began to struggle to his feet.
With a brutal chuckle, Connie Myers pushed Hagan back and shoved hisrevolver under the other's nose.
"Sure!" he admitted evenly. "And you keep quiet, or I'll finish younow--instead of letting the police do it!" He laughed out jarringly."You're under arrest, you know, for the murder of Luther Doyle, and forrobbing 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 thearrest, I'd rather the police did that. I'm not mixing up in it, andby and by"--he lifted up the hypodermic for Hagan to see--"I'm goingto shoot a little dope into you that'll keep you quiet while I get awaymyself."
Hagan's face had gone a grayish white--he had caught sight of the moneyon the table, and his eyes kept shifting back and forth from it toMyers' face.
"Murder!" he said huskily. "There is no murder. I don't know who Doyleis. You said this house was yours--you hired me to come here. You saidyou were going to tear down the fireplace and build another. You said Icould work evenings and earn some extra money."
"Sure, I did!" There was a vicious leer now on Connie Myers' lips. "Butyou 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 bebeyond 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 tenementat 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 floorabove. There's a paper stuck under the edge of Hagan's table with apiece of chewing gum, where he hid it. You'll know what it is whenyou go out and take a look at Doyle's house in Pelham. Yours truly, AFRIEND."
Mike Hagan did not speak--his lips were twitching, and there was horrorcreeping 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--apiece of paper with a drawing of the fireplace on it, and a place in thedrawing marked with an X. That was good enough, wasn't it? That'sthe paper I stuck under your table this afternoon when your wife wasout--see? Somebody's got to stand for the job, and if it's somebody elseit won't be me--get me! When I had a look at that fireplace I knew Icouldn'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 havesomebody to help me, I thought I might as well let him help me all theway through--and stand for it. I picked you, Mike--that's why I croakedold Doyle in your tenement to-night. I wrote this letter while I waswaiting for you to show up at the station to come out here with me, andI'm going to see that the police get it in the next hour. When theyfind Doyle in the room below yours, and that paper in your room, and thebusted fireplace here--I guess they won't look any farther for who didit. And say"--he leaned forward with an ugly grin--"mabbe you think I'msoft to be telling you all this? But don't you fool yourself. You don'tknow me--you don't know who I am. So tell 'em the TRUTH! They won'tbelieve you anyway with evidence like that against you--and the neaterthe story the more they'll think it shows brains enough on your part tohave pulled a job like this!"
"My God!" Hagan was rocking on his knees, beads of sweat were startingout on his forehead. "You wouldn't plant a man like that!" he criedbrokenly. "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 wassomething 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 forthe Gray Seal. So that was the game, inhuman, hellish, the whole ofit, to the last filthy dregs--Connie Myers, to protect himself, wasrailroading an innocent man to death for the crime that he himself hadcommitted! There was a cold smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now, as he tookhis automatic from his pocket. No, it wasn't quite all the game--therewas still HIS hand to play! He edged forward a little nearer to thedoor--and halted abruptly, listening. An automobile had stopped outsideon the road. Hagan was still pleading in a frenzied way; ConnieMyers was callously folding his letter, while he watched the otherwarily--neither of the men had heard the sound.
And then, quick, almost on the instant, came a rush of feet, a crashupon the front door--an imperative command to open in the name of thelaw. THE POLICE! Jimmie Dale's brain was working now with lightningspeed. Somehow the police had stumbled upon the crime in that tenement;and, as he had foreseen in such an event, had identified Doyle. But theycould not be sure that any one was present here in the house now--theycould not see a light any more than he had. He must get Mike Haganaway--must see that Connie Myers did NOT get away. Myers was on hisfeet now, fear struck in his turn, the letter clutched in a tight-closedfist, his revolver swung out, poised, in the other hand. Hagan, too, wason his feet, and, unheeded now by Connie Myers, was wrenching his wristsapart.
Another crash upon the door--another. Another demand in a harsh voice toopen it. Then some one running around to the window at the side of thehouse--and Jimmie Dale sprang forward.
There was the roar of a report, a blinding flash almost in Jimmie Dale'seyes, as Connie Myers, whirling instantly at his entrance, fired--andmissed. It happened quick then, in the space of the ticking of awatch--before Jimmie Dale, flinging himself forward, had reached theman. Like a defiant challenge to their demand it must have seemed to theofficers outside, that shot of Connie Myers at Jimmie Dale, for it wasanswered on the instant by another through the side window. And theshot, fired at random, the interior of the room hidden from the officersoutside by the drawn shades, found its mark--and Connie Myers, a bulletin his brain, pitched forward, dead, upo
n 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 againtoward 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 otheracross the room and into the kitchen to the trapdoor. "Quick!" hebreathed again. "Get down there--quick! And no noise! They don't knowhow many are in the house. When they find HIM they'll probably besatisfied."
Hagan, stupefied, dazed, obeyed mechanically--and, in an instant, thetrapdoor closed behind them, Jimmie Dale was standing beside the otherin the cellar.
"Not a sound now!" he cautioned once more.
His flashlight winked, went out, winked again; then held steadily, incurious fascination it seemed, as, in its circuit, the ray fell uponHagan--FELL UPON THE TORN, RAGGED EDGE OF A PAPER IN HAGAN'S HAND! Witha suppressed cry, Jimmie Dale snatched it away from the other. Itwas 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 atoppling 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 youare--for God's sake let's get out of here!"
Any difference! Jimmie Dale's jaws were clamped like a steel vise. Anydifference! The difference between life and death for the man besidehim--that was all! He was reading the portion in his hand. It was thelast part of the letter, beginning with: "There's a paper stuck underthe edge of Hagan's table--" From above, from the floor of the frontroom now, came the rush and trample of feet. He could not go back forthe other half. And any attempt to conceal the fact that Connie Myershad been alone in the house was futile now. They would find the tornletter in the dead man's hand, proof enough that some one else had beenthere. What was in that part of the letter that was still clutched inthat death grip upstairs? A sentence from it, that he had heard ConnieMyers read, seemed to burn itself into his brain. "IF YOU WANT TO KNOWWHO 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 pulledHagan to the cellarway, and stealthily lifted one side of the doubletrapdoor. There was a chance, desperate enough, one in a thousand--butstill 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 frontshowed the lamp glare of their automobile.
"Run for the car!" Jimmie Dale jerked out from between set teeth--andwith Hagan beside him, steadying the man by the arm, dashed across theintervening fifty yards.
They had not been seen. A minute more, and the car, evidently belongingto the local police, for it was headed in the direction of New York, andas though it had come from Pelham, swept down the road, swept around aturn, and Jimmie Dale, with a gasp of relief, straightened up a littlefrom 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 thanthat it was but another car passing by. There was no telephone in thehouse; the nearest house was a quarter of a mile away, and that might ormight not have a telephone. Could he count on half an hour? He glancedanxiously at the crouched figure beside him. He would have to! It wasthe only chance. They would telephone the contents of the dead man'shalf of the letter to the New York police. Could he get to Hagan's roomFIRST! "Look in Hagan's room," their part of the letter read--but itdid not say for WHAT, or exactly WHERE! If they found nothing, Hagan wassafe. Connie Myers' reputation, the fact that he was found in disguiseat Doyle's house, was, barring any incriminating evidence, quite enoughto let Hagan out. There would only remain in the minds of the police thequestion of who, beside Connie Myers, had been in old Doyle's house thatnight? And now Jimmie Dale smiled a little whimsically. Well, perhaps hecould 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 hisface; and there, ahead now, lights were beginning to show. And more thanever now, with what was before him, it was imperative that Mike Haganshould not recognise Larry the Bat. Jimmie Dale glanced again atHagan--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! Ifyou keep your mouth shut, you've nothing to fear; if you let out a wordof what's happened to-night, you'll probably go to the chair for a crimeyou 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 NewYork," continued Jimmie Dale crisply. "But when you get there, keep awayfrom your home for the next two or three hours. Hang around with some ofthe boys you know, and if you're asked anything afterward, say you werebatting around town all evening. Don't worry--you'll find you're out ofthis when you read the morning papers. Now get out--hurry!" He pushedHagan from the car. "I've got to make my own get-away."
Hagan, standing in the road, brushed his hand bewilderingly across hiseyes.
"Yes--but you--I--"
"Never mind about that!" Jimmie Dale leaned out, and gripped Hagan'sarm impressively. "There's only one thing you've got to think of, orremember. Keep your mouth shut! No matter what happens, keep your mouthshut--if you want to save your neck! Good-night, Hagan!"
The car was racing forward again. It shot streaking through the streetsof the town ahead, and, dully, over its own inferno, echoed shouts,cries, and execrations of an outraged populace--then out into the nightagain, roaring its way toward New York.
He had half an hour--perhaps! It was a good thing Hagan did not know, orhad not grasped the significance of that torn letter--the man would havebeen unmanageable with fear and excitement. It would puzzle Hagan tofind no paper stuck under his table when he came to look for it! Butthat was a minor consideration, that mattered not at all.
Half an hour! On roared the car--towns, black roads, villages, woodedlands 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 cityat last--and now he had to moderate his speed; but, by keeping to theless frequented streets, he could still drive at a fast pace. One pieceof good fortune had been his--the long motor coat he had found in thecar with which to cover the rags of Larry the Bat, and without which hewould have been obliged to leave the car somewhere on the outskirts ofthe city, and to trust, like Mike Hagan, to other and slower means oftransportation.
Blocks away from Hagan's tenement, he ran the car into a lane, slippedoff the motor coat, and from his pocket whipped out the little metalinsignia case--and in another moment a diamond-shaped gray seal wasneatly affixed to the black ebony rim of the steering wheel. He smiledironically. It was necessary, quite necessary that the police shouldhave no doubt as to who had been in Doyle's house with Connie Myers thatnight, or to whom they had so considerately loaned their automobile!
He was running now--through lanes, dodging down side streets, takingevery 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 orother, he must still get that paper first.
He was at the tenement now--shuffling leisurely up the steps. The frontdoor was open. He entered, and went up the first flight of stairs, thenalong the hall, and up the next flight. He had half expected the placeto be bustling with excitement over the crime; but the police evidentlyhad kept the affair quiet, for he had seen no one since he hadentered. But now, as he began to mount the third flight, he went moreslowly--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 forHagan'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 theflashlight wavered, glistened on brass buttons went out, and a voicelaughed roughly:
"It's only Larry the Bat!"
"Larry the Bat, eh?" It was another voice, harsh and curt. "What are youdoing here?"
He was not first, after all! The telephone message from Pelham--it wasalmost certainly that--had beaten him! They were ahead of him, justahead of him, they had only been a few steps ahead of him going up thestairs, just a second ahead of him on their way to Hagan's room! JimmieDale was thinking fast now. He must go, too--to Hagan's room withthem--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 theprice 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'rein the dark, anyhow, and the thing may be only a steer. Mabbe it'llwork--anyway, it won't do any harm." His hand fell heavily on JimmieDale'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. Andyou do what you're told, or we'll put the screws on you--see? We'reafter something here, and you've blown the whole game--savvy? You'vespilled the gravy--understand?"
In the darkness, Jimmie Dale smiled grimly. It was far more than he haddared 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 tohave 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 ofthe officers, putting his shoulder to the door, burst it open and sprangin. The other shoved Jimmie Dale forward. It was quickly done. The threewere in the room. The door was closed again.
Came a cry of terror out of the darkness, a movement as of some onerising 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 quicksweep along it--NOTHING! He stooped, reaching farther in--another sweepof his arm--and his fingers closed on a sheet of paper and a piece ofhard gum. In an instant they were in his pocket.
A match crackled and flared up. A lamp was lighted. Larry the Bat sulkedsullenly against the wall.
Terror-stricken, wide-eyed, Mrs. Hagan had clutched the child lyingbeside her to her arms, and was sitting bolt upright in bed.
"Now then, no fuss about it!" said the officer in charge, with brutaldirectness. "You might as well make a clean breast of Mike's share inthat murder downstairs--Larry the Bat, here, has already told us thewhole story. Come on, now--out with it!"
"Murder!"--her face went white. "My Mike--MURDER!" She seemed for aninstant stunned--and then down the worn, thin, haggard face gushed thetears. "I don't believe it!" she cried. "I don't believe it!"
"Come on now, cut that out!" prodded the officer roughly. "I tell youLarry the Bat, here, has opened everything up wide. You're only makingit 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 makehim bad. But murder--you LIE!"
She had risen slowly from the bed--a gaunt, pitiful figure, pitifullyclothed, the black hair, gray-streaked, streaming thinly over hershoulders, 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 wouldbring more shame and ruin here--you that's selling my man's life awaywith 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 lipswere twitching weakly, he drew far back against the wall--and then,glancing miserably at the officers, as though entreating theirpermission, began to edge toward the door.
For a moment she watched him, her face white with outrage, her handclenched at her side--and then she found her voice again.
"Get out of here!" she said, in a choked, strained way pointing to thedoor. "Get out of here--you dirty skate!"
"Sure!" mumbled Larry the Bat, his eyes on the floor. "Sure!" hemumbled--and the door closed behind him.