CHAPTER III
THE CRIME CLUB
For what length of time he had remained unconscious, Jimmie Dale had notthe slightest idea. He regained his senses to find himself lying on acouch in a strange room that had a most exquisitely brass-wrought domelight in the ceiling. That was what attracted his attention, becausethe light hurt his eyes, and his head was already throbbing as though athousand devils were beating a diabolical tattoo upon it.
He closed his eyes against the light. Where was he? What had happened?Oh, yes, he remembered now! That smash on Lower Broadway! He had beenhurt. He moved first one limb and then another tentatively, and wasrelieved to find that, though his body ached as if it had been severelyshaken, and his head was bad, he had apparently escaped without seriousinjury.
Where was he? In a hospital? His fingers, resting at his side upon thecouch, supplied him with the information that it was a very expensivecouch, upholstered in finest leather. If he were in a hospital, he wouldbe in a cot.
He opened his eyes again to glance curiously around him. The room wasquite in keeping with the artistic lighting fixture and the refined, ifexpensive, taste that was responsible for the couch. A heavy velvetrug of rich, dark green was bordered by a polished hardwood floor;panellings of dark-green frieze and beautifully grained woodwork madethe lower walls; while above, on a background of some soft-toned paper,hung a few, and evidently choice, oil paintings. There was a big,inviting lounging chair; a massive writing table, or more properly, adesk of walnut; and behind the desk, his back half turned, apparentlyintent upon a book, sat a man in immaculate evening dress.
Jimmie Dale closed his eyes again. There was something reassuring aboutit all, comfortably reassuring. Though why there should be any occasionfor a feeling of reassurance at all, he could not for the moment makeout. And then, in a sudden flash, the details of the night came back tohim. The Tocsin's letter--the package he was to get--the taxicab--thechauffeur, who was not a chauffeur--the chase--the trap. He layperfectly still. It was the professional Jimmie Dale now whose brain, inspite of the throbbing, brutally aching head, was at work, keen, alert.
The chauffeur! What had happened to him? Had the man been killed in theauto smash; or, less fortunate than himself, fallen into the hands ofthose whose power he seemed both to fear and rate so highly? And thatpackage! Box--what was the number?--yes, 428. What did that mean? Whatbox? Where was it? Who was John Johansson? He hadn't heard any more thanthat; the smash had come then. And lastly, he was back again to thesame question he had begun with: Where was he now himself? It looked asthough some good Samaritan had picked him up. Who was this gentleman soquietly reading there at the desk?
Jimmie Dale opened his eyes for the third time. How still, howabsolutely silent the room was! He studied the man's back speculativelyfor a moment, then his gaze travelled on past the man to the wall,riveted there, and his fingers, without movement of his arm, pressedagainst the outside of his coat pocket. He thought as much! Hisautomatic was gone!
Not a muscle of Jimmie Dale's face moved. His eyes shifted to a pictureon the wall. THE MAN WAS WATCHING HIM--NOT READING! Just above the levelof the desk, a small mirror held the couch in focus--but, equally,it held the man in focus, and Jimmie Dale had seen the other's eyes,through a black mask that covered the face to the top of the upper lip,fixed intently upon him.
There was a chill now where before there had been reassurance, somethingominous in the very quiet and refinement of the room; and Jimmie Dalesmiled inwardly in bitter irony--his good Samaritan wore a mask! Hisself-congratulations had come too soon. Whatever had happened to thechauffeur, it was evident enough that he himself was caught! What was itthe chauffeur had said? Something about a chance through being unknown.Was it to be a battle of wits, then? God, if his head did not ache sofrightfully! It was hard to think with the brain half sick with pain.
Those two eyes shining in that mirror! There seemed something horriblyspectre-like about it. He did not look again, but he knew they werethere. It was like a cat watching a mouse. Why did not the man speak,or move, or do something, and--He turned his head slowly; the man waslaughing in a low, amused way.
"You appear to be taken with that picture," observed a pleasant voice."Perhaps you recognise it from there? It is a Corot."
Jimmie Dale, with a well-simulated start, sat up--and, with anotherquite as well simulated, stared at the masked man. The other had laiddown his book, and swung around in his chair to face the couch. JimmieDale stood up a little shakily.
"Look here!" he said awkwardly. "I--I don't quite understand. I rememberthat my taxi got into a smash-up, and I suppose I have to thank you forthe assistance you must have rendered me; only, as I say"--he looked ina puzzled way around the room, and in an even more perplexed way at themask on the other's face--"I must confess I am at a loss to understandquite the meaning of this."
"Suppose that instead of trying to understand you simply accept thingsas you find them." The voice was soft, but there was a finality in itthat its blandness only served to make the more suggestive.
Jimmie Dale drew himself up, and bowed coldly.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not mean to intrude. I have only tothank you again, then, and bid you good-night."
The lips beneath the mask parted slightly in a politely deprecatingsmile.
"There is no hurry," said the man, a sudden sharpness creeping into histones. "I am sorry that the rule I apply to you does not work both ways.For instance, I might be quite at a loss to account for your presence inthat taxicab."
Jimmie Dale's smile was equally polite, equally deprecating.
"I fail to see how it could be of the slightest possible interest toyou," he replied. "However, I have no objection to telling you. I hailedthe taxi at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Waverly Place, told thechauffeur to drive me to the St. James Club, and--"
"The St. James Club," broke in the other coldly, "is, I believe, north,not SOUTH of Waverly Place--and on Broadway not at all."
Jimmie Dale stared at the other for an instant in patient annoyance.
"I am quite well aware of that," he said stiffly. "Nevertheless I toldthe man to drive me to the St. James Club. We came across Waverly Place,but on reaching Broadway, instead of turning uptown, he suddenly whirledin the other direction and sent the car flying at full speed down LowerBroadway. I shouted at the man. I don't know yet whether he was drunkor crazy or"--Jimmie Dale's eyes fixed disdainfully on the other'smask--"whether there might not, after all, have been method in hismadness. I can only say that before we had gone more than two or threeblocks, a wild effort on his part to avoid a collision with an autoswinging out from a side street resulted in an even more disastroussmash with another on the other side, and I was knocked senseless."
"'Victim,' I presume, is the idea you desire to convey," observed theother evenly. "You were quite the victim of circumstances, as it were!"
Jimmie Dale's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"It would appear to be fairly obvious, I should say."
"Very clever!" commented the man. "But now suppose we remove the buttonsfrom the foils!" His voice rasped suddenly. "You are quite as well awareas I am that what has happened to-night was not an accident. Nor--incase the possibility may have occurred to you--are the police any thewiser, save for the existence of two wrecked cars on Lower Broadway, andanother which escaped, and for which doubtless they are still searchingassiduously. The ownership of the taxicab you so inadvertently enteredthey will have no difficulty in establishing--you, perhaps, however,are in a better position than I am to appreciate the fact that theestablishment of its ownership will lead them nowhere. As I understandit, the man who drove you to-night obtained the loan of the cab from oneof the company's chauffeur's in return for a hundred-dollar bill. Am Iright?"
"In view of what has happened," admitted Jimmie Dale simply, "I shouldnot be surprised."
There was a sort of sardonic admiration in the other's laugh.
"As for the other car," he went on, "
I can assure you that its ownershipwill never be known. When the nearest patrolman rushed up, there wereno survivors of the disaster, save those in the third car which he waspowerless to stop--which accounts for your presence here. You will admitthat I have been quite frank."
"Oh, quite!" said Jimmie Dale, a little wearily. "But would you mindtelling me what all this is leading to?"
The man had been leaning forward in his chair, one hand, palm downward,resting lightly on the desk. He shifted his hand now suddenly to the armof his chair.
"THIS!" he said, and on the desk where his hand had been lay theTocsin's gold signet ring.
Jimmie Dale's face expressed mild curiosity. He could feel the other'seyes boring into him.
"We were speaking of ownership," said the man, in a low, menacingtone. "I want to know where the woman who owns this ring can be foundto-night."
There was no play, no trifling here; the man was in deadly earnest. Butit seemed to Jimmie Dale, even with the sense of peril more imminentwith every instant, that he could have laughed outright in savagemockery at the irony of the question. Where was she? Even WHO was she?And this was the hour in which he was to have known!
"May I look at it?" he requested calmly.
The other nodded, but his eyes never left Jimmie Dale.
"It will give you an extra moment or so to frame your answer," he saidsarcastically.
Jimmie Dale ignored the thrust, picked up the ring, examined itdeliberately, and set it back again on the table.
"Since I do not know who owns it," he said, "I cannot answer yourquestion."
"No! Well, then, there is still another matter--a little package thatwas in the taxicab with you. Where is that?"
"See here!" said Jimmie Dale irritably. "This has gone far enough! Ihave seen no package, large or small, or of any description whatever.You are evidently mistaking me for some one else. You have only totelephone to the St. James Club." He reached toward his pocket for hiscardcase. "My name is--"
"Dale," supplied the other curtly. "Don't bother about the card, Mr.Dale. We have already taken the liberty of searching you." He roseabruptly from his chair. "I am afraid you do not quite realise yourposition, Mr. Dale," he said, with an ominous smile. "Let me makeit clear. I do not wish to be theatrical about this, but we do nottemporise here. You will either answer both of those questions to mysatisfaction, OR YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE THIS PLACE ALIVE."
Jimmie Dale's face hardened. His eyes met the other's steadily.
"Ah, I think I begin to see!" he said caustically. "When I have beenthoroughly frightened I shall be offered my freedom at a price. A sortof up-to-date game of holdup! The penalty of being a wealthy man! If youhad named your figure to begin with, we would have saved a lot of idletalk, and you would have had my answer the sooner: NOTHING!"
"Do you know," said the other, in a grimly musing way, "there has alwaysbeen one man, but only one until now, that I have wished I might addto my present associates. I refer to the so-called Gray Seal. To-nightthere are two. I pay you the compliment of being the other. But"--he wassmiling ominously again--"we are wasting time, Mr. Dale. I am willing toexpose my hand to the extent of admitting that the information you arewithholding is infinitely more valuable to me than the mere wreaking ofreprisal upon you for a refusal to talk. Therefore, if you will answer,I pledge you my word you will be free to leave here within five minutes.If you refuse, you are already aware of the alternative. Well, Mr.Dale?"
Who was this man? Jimmie Dale was studying the other's chin, the lips,the white, even teeth, the jet-black hair. Some day the tables might beturned. Could he recognise again this cool, imperturbable ruffian who socallously threatened him with murder?
"Well, Mr. Dale? I am waiting!"
"I am not a magician," said Jimmie Dale contemptuously. "I could notanswer your questions if I wanted to."
The other's hand slid instantly to a row of electric buttons on thedesk.
"Very well, Mr. Dale!" he said quietly. "You do not believe, I see, thatI would dare to carry my threat into execution; you perhaps even doubtmy power. I shall take the trouble to convince you--I imagine it willstimulate your memory."
The door opened. Two men were standing on the threshold, both in eveningdress, both masked. The man behind the desk came forward, took JimmieDale's arm almost courteously, and led him from the room out into acorridor, where he halted abruptly.
"I want to call your attention first, Mr. Dale, to the fact that as faras you are concerned you neither have now, nor ever will have, any ideawhether you are in the heart of New York or fifty miles away from it.Now, listen! Do you hear anything?"
There was nothing. Only the strange silence of that other room wasintensified now. There was not a sound; stillness such as it seemed toJimmie Dale he had never experienced before was around him.
"You may possibly infer from the silence that you are NOT in the city,"suggested the other, after a moment's pause. "I leave you to your ownconclusions in that respect. The cause, however, of the silence isinternal, not external; we had sound-proof principles in mind to aperhaps exaggerated degree when this building was constructed. If youcare to do so, you have my permission to shout, say, for help, to yourheart's content. We shall make no effort to stop you."
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. He was staring down a brilliantlylighted, richly carpeted corridor. There were doors on one side, windowson the other, the windows all hung with heavy, closely drawn portieres.The corridor was certainly not on the ground floor, but whether it wason the second or third, or even above that again, he had no means ofknowing. From appearances, though, the place seemed more like a large,private mansion than anything else.
"Just one word more before we proceed," continued the other. "I do notwish you to labour under any illusion. Here we are frankly criminals.This is our home. It should have some effect in impressing you with thepower and resource at our command, and also with the class of men withwhom you are dealing. There is not one among us whose education is notfully equal to your own; not one, indeed, but who is chosen, grantingfirst his criminal tendencies, because he is a specialist in his ownparticular field--in commerce, in the government diplomatic service, inthe professions of law and medicine, in the ranks of pure science.We are bordering on the fantastical, are we not? Dreaming, you willprobably say, of the Utopian in crime organisation. Quite so, Mr. Dale.I only ask you to consider the POSSIBILITIES if what I say is true. Nowlet us proceed. I am going to take you into three rooms--the three whosedoors you see ahead of you. You will notice that, including the one youhave just left, there are four on this corridor. I do not wish to strainyour credulity, or play tricks upon you; so I am going to ask you to fixan approximate idea of the length of the corridor in your mind, as itwill perhaps enable you to account more readily for what may appear tobe a discrepancy in the corresponding size of the rooms."
One of the men opened the door ahead. Jimmie Dale, at a sign from hisconductor, moved forward and entered. Just what he had expected to findhe could not have told; his brain was whirling, partly from his achinghead, partly from his desperate effort to conceive some way of escapefrom the peril which, for all his nonchalance, he knew only too wellwas the gravest he had ever faced; but what he saw was simply a cozilyfurnished bedroom. There was nothing peculiar about it; nothing out ofthe way, except perhaps that it was rather narrow.
And then suddenly, rubbing his eyes involuntarily, he was staring in adazed way before him. The whole right-hand side of the wall was sinkingwithout a sound into the floor, increasing the width of the room by somefive or six feet--and in this space was disclosed what appeared to be asort of chemical laboratory, elaborately equipped, extending the entirelength of the room.
"The wall is purely a matter of mechanical construction, operatedhydraulically." The man was speaking softly at Jimmie Dale's side."The room beneath is built to correspond; the base, ceiling, and wallmouldings here do not have to be very ingenious to effect a disguise.I might say, however, that few visitors, other than
yourself, have everseen anything here but a bedroom." He waved his hand toward the retorts,the racks of test tubes, the hundred and one articles that strewed thelaboratory bench. "As for this, its purpose is twofold. We, as well,as the police, have often need of analysis. We make it. If we require adrug, a poison, say, we compound it from its various ingredients, or,as the case may be, distil it, perhaps--it is, you will agree, somewhatmore difficult to trace to its source if procured that way. And speakingof poisons"--he stepped forward, and lifted a glass-stoppered bottlecontaining a colourless liquid from a shelf--"in a modest way we haveeven done some original research work here. This, for instance, isas Utopian from our standpoint as the formation, and personnel of theorganisation I have briefly outlined to you. It possesses very essentialqualities. It is almost instantaneous in its action, requires a verysmall quantity, and defies detection even by autopsy." He uncorked thebottle, and dipped in a long glass rod. "Will you watch the experiment?"he invited, with a sort of ghastly pleasantry. "I do not want you toaccept anything on trust."
With a start, Jimmie Dale swung around. He had heard no sound, butanother man was at his elbow now--and, struggling in the man's hand, wasa little white rabbit.
It was over in an instant. A single drop in the rabbit's mouth, and theanimal had stiffened out, a lifeless thing.
"It is quite as effective on the human organism," continued the other,"only, instead of one drop, three are required. If I make it ten"--hewas carefully measuring the liquid into two wineglasses--"it is onlythat even you may be satisfied that the quantity is fatal." He filled upthe glasses with what was apparently wine of some description, which hepoured from a decanter, and held out the glasses in front of him.
And again Jimmie Dale started, again he had heard no one enter, and yettwo men had stepped forward from behind him and had taken the glassesfrom their leader's hands. He glanced around him, counting quickly--theywere surely the two who had entered with him from the corridor. No!Including the leader, there were now six men, all in evening dress, allmasked, in the room with him.
A wave of the leader's hand, and the two men holding the glasses leftthe room. The man turned to Jimmie Dale again.
"Shall we proceed to the second room, Mr. Dale?" he asked politely."I think it is now prepared for us--I do not wish to bore you with arepetition of magical sliding walls."
There was something now that numbed the ache in Jimmie Dale's brain--asense of some deadly, remorseless thing that seemed to be constantlycreeping closer to him, clutching at him--to smother him, to choke him.There was something absolutely fiendish, terrifying, in the veneer ofculture around him.
They had entered the second room. This, like the other, was apseudo-bedroom; but here the movable wall was already down. Ranged alongthe right-hand side were a great number of cabinets that slid in andout, much after the style and fashion used by clothing dealers to stockand display their wares. These cabinets were now all open, displayinghundreds of costumes of all kinds and descriptions, and evidentlycomplete to the minutest detail. The cabinets were flanked byfull-length mirrors at each end of the room, and on little tables beforethe mirrors was an assortment, that none better than Jimmie Dale himselfcould appreciate, of make-up accessories.
The man smiled apologetically.
"I am afraid this is rather uninteresting," he said. "I have shown it toyou simply that you may understand that we are alive to the importanceof detail. Disguise, that is daily vital to us, is an art that dependsessentially on detail. I venture to say we could impersonate anycharacter or type or nationality or class in the United States at amoment's notice. But"--he took Jimmie Dale's arm again and conducted himout into the corridor, while the two men who were evidently actingthe role of guards followed closely behind--"there is still the thirdroom--here." He halted Jimmie Dale before the door. "I have asked youto answer two questions, Mr. Dale," he said softly. "I ask you now toremember the alternative."
They still stood before the door. There was that uncanny silenceagain--it seemed to Jimmie Dale to last interminably. Neither of thethree men surrounding him moved nor spoke. Then the door before him wasopened on an unlighted room, and he was led across the threshold. Heheard the door close behind him. The lights came on. And then it seemedas though he could not move, as though he were rooted to the spot---andthe colour ebbed from his face. Three figures were before him: the twomen who had carried the glasses from the first room, and the chauffeurwho had driven him in the taxicab. The two men still held theglasses--the chauffeur was bound hand and foot in a chair. One of theglasses was EMPTY; the other was still significantly full.
Jimmie Dale, with a violent effort at self-control, leaned forward.
The man in the chair was dead.