CHAPTER XII
JOHN JOHANSSON--FOUR-TWO-EIGHT
Nearly midnight already! It was even later than he had thought. Larrythe Bat pressed his face against a shop's windowpane on the Bowery fora glance at a clock that had caught his eye on the wall within. Nearlymidnight!
He slouched on again hurriedly, still debating in his mind, as hehad been debating it all the way from the Tocsin's, the question ofreturning again to the Sanctuary. So far, the way both to Spider Jack'sand the Sanctuary had been in the same direction--but the Sanctuary wason the next street.
Jimmie Dale reached the corner--and hesitated. It was strange how strongwas the intuition upon him to-night that bade him go on and make allspeed to Spider Jack's--while equally strong was the cold, stubbornlogic that bade him go first to the Sanctuary. There were things that heneeded there that would probably be absolutely essential to him beforethe night was out, things without which he might be so badly handicappedas to invite failure from the start; and yet--it was already midnight!
Ostensibly both Makoff and Spider Jack closed their places at eleven.But that might mean anything--depending upon their own respectiveinclinations, or on what of their own peculiar brand of deviltry mightbe afoot. If they were still about, still in evidence, he was still tooearly, midnight though it was; though, on the other hand, if the coastwas clear, he could ill afford to lose a moment of the time betweennow and the hour that the Magpie had planned for the robbery of HenryLaSalle, for it would not be an easy matter, even once inside SpiderJack's, to find that package--since it was Spider's open boast thatthings committed to his care were where the police, or any one else,might as well whistle and suck their thumbs as try to find them!
And then, with sudden decision, taking his hesitation, as it were, bythe throat, Jimmie Dale hurried on again--to the Sanctuary. At most, itcould delay him but another fifteen minutes, and by half-past twelve, ora quarter to one at the latest, he would be at Spider Jack's.
Disdaining the secrecy of the side door on the alley, for who had abetter right or was better known there than Larry the Bat, a tenant ofyears, he entered the tenement by the front door, scuffled up the stairsto the first landing, and let himself into his disreputable room. Helocked the door behind him, lighted the choked and wheezy gas jet, in asingle, sharp-flung glance assured himself that the blinds were tightlyshut, and, kneeling in the far corner, threw back the oilcloth andlifted up the loose section of the flooring beneath. He reached inside,fumbling under the neatly folded clothes of Jimmie Dale, and in a momentlaid his leather girdle with its kit of burglar's tools on the floorbeside him; and beside that again an electric flashlight, a black silkmask, and--what he had never expected to use again when, early the nightbefore, he had, as he had believed, put it away forever--the thin, metalinsignia case of the Gray Seal. Another moment, and, with the flooringreplaced, the oilcloth rolled back into position, he had stripped offhis coat and was pulling his spotted, greasy shirt off over his head;then, stooping quickly, he picked up the girdle, put it on, put onhis shirt again over it, put on his coat, put the metal case, theflashlight, and the mask in his pockets--and once more the Sanctuary wasin darkness.
It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that Jimmie Dale turned into theupper section of Thompson Street. Here he slowed his pace, that hadbeen almost a run since he had left the Sanctuary, and began to shuffleleisurely along; for the street, that a few hours before would have beenchoked with its pushcarts and venders, its half naked children playingwhere they could find room in the gutters, its sidewalks thronged withshawled women and picturesquely dressed, earringed, dark-visaged men,a scene, as it were, transported from some foreign land, was stillfar from deserted; the quiet, if quiet it could be called, was butcomparative, there were many yet about, and he had no desire to attractattention by any evidence of undue haste. And, besides, Spider Jack'swas just ahead, making the corner of the alleyway a few hundred feetfarther on, and he had very good reasons for desiring to approachSpider's little novelty store at a pace that would afford him everyopportunity for observation.
On he shuffled along the street, until, reaching Spider Jack's, a littletwo-storied, tumble-down brick structure, a muttered exclamation ofsatisfaction escaped him. The shop was closed and dark; and, thoughSpider Jack lived above the store, there were no lights even in theupper windows. Spider Jack presumably was either out, or in bed! So far,then, he could have asked for nothing more.
Jimmie Dale edged in close to the building as he slouched by, so closethat his hat brim seemed to touch the windowpane. It was possible thatfrom a room at the rear of the store there might be a light with atelltale ray perhaps filtering through, say, a door crack. But there wasnothing--only blackness within.
He paused at the corner of the building by the alleyway. Down here,adjoining the high board fence of Spider Jack's back yard, Makoff madepretense at pawnbrokering in a small and dingy wooden building, that waslittle more pretentious than a shed--and in Makoff's place, so far as hecould see, there was no light, either.
Jimmie Dale's fingers were industriously rolling a cigarette, as, underthe brim of his slouch hat, his eyes were noting every detail aroundhim. A yard in against the wall of Spider Jack's, the wall cuttingoff the rays of the street lamp at a sharp angle, it was shadowy andblack--and beyond that, farther in, the alleyway was like a pit. Itwould take less, far less, than the fraction of a second to gain thatyard, but some one was approaching behind him, and a little group ofpeople loitered, with annoying persistency, directly across the way onthe other side of the street. Jimmie Dale stuck the cigarette betweenhis lips, fumbled in his pockets, and finally produced a box of matches.The group opposite was moving on now; the footsteps he had heard behindhim, those of a man, drew nearer, the man passed by--and the box ofmatches in Jimmie Dale's hand dropped to the ground. He reached to pickthem up, and in his stooping posture, without seeming to turn his head,flung a quick glance behind him up the street. No one, for that fractionof a second that he needed, was near enough to see--and in that fractionof a second Jimmie Dale disappeared.
A dozen yards down the lane, he sprang for the top of the high fence,gripped it, and, lithe and active as a cat, swung himself up and over,and dropped noiselessly to the ground on the other side. Here he stoodmotionless for a moment, close against the fence, to get his bearings.The rear of Spider Jack's building loomed up before him--the backwindows as unlighted as those in front. Luck so far, at least, was withhim! He turned and looked about him, and, his eyes growing accustomed tothe darkness, he could just make out Makoff's place, bordering the endof the yard--nor, from this new vantage point, could he discover,any more than before, a single sign of life about the pawnbroker'sestablishment.
Jimmie Dale stole forward across the yard, mounted the three steps ofthe low stoop at Spider Jack's back door, and tried the door cautiously.It was locked. From his pocket came the small steel instrument thathad stood Larry the Bat in good stead a hundred times before in similarcircumstances. He inserted it in the keyhole, worked deftly with itfor an instant--and tried the door again. It was still locked. Andthen Jimmie Dale smiled almost apologetically. Spider Jack did not useordinary locks on his back door!
The discountenanced instrument went back into his pocket, and nowJimmie Dale's hand slipped inside his shirt, and from one of the little,upright pockets of the leather belt, and from still another, and fromafter that a third, came the vicious little blued-steel tools. Thesensitive fingers travelled slowly up and down the side of the door--andthen he was at work in earnest. A minute passed--another--there was adull, low, grating sound, a snick as of metal yielding suddenly--andJimmie Dale was coolly stowing away his tools again inside his shirt.
He pushed the door open an inch, listened, then swung it wide, steppedinside, and closed it behind him. A round, white beam of light flashedin a quick circle--and went out. It was a sort of storeroom, innocentenough and orderly enough in appearance, bare-floored, with boxes andpacking cases piled neatly against the walls. In one corner a stair
caseled to the story above--and from above, quite audibly now, he caught thesound of snoring. Spider Jack was in bed, then!
Directly facing him was the open door of another room, and Jimmie Dale,moving softly forward, entered it. He had never been in Spider Jack'sbefore, and his first concern was to form an intimate acquaintanceshipwith his surroundings. Again the flashlight circled, and again went out.
"No windows!" muttered Jimmie Dale under his breath. "Nothing very fancyabout the architecture! Three rooms in a row! Store in front of thisroom through that door of course. Wonder if the door's locked, thoughit's a foregone conclusion the package wouldn't be in there."
Not a sound, his tread silent, he crossed to the closed door that he hadnoticed. It was unlocked, and he opened it tentatively a little way.A faint glow of light diffused itself through the opening. Jimmie Dalenodded his head and closed the door again. The street lamp, shiningthrough the shop windows, accounted for the light.
And now the flashlight played with steady inquisitiveness about him.The room in which he stood seemed to combine a sort of office, witha lounging room, in which Spider Jack, no doubt, entertained hisparticular cronies. There was table in the centre, cards still upon it,chairs about it. Against the wall farthest away from the shop stooda huge, old-fashioned cabinet; and a little farther along, anglewise,partitioning off the corner, as it were, hung, for some purpose orother, a cretonne curtain. Also, against the wall next to the lane,bringing a commiserating smile to Jimmie Dale's lips as his eyes fellupon it, was a clumsy, lumbering, antique safe.
Jimmie Dale's eyes returned to the curtain. What was it doing there?What was it for? Instinctively he stepped over to examine it. A singleglance, however, as he lifted it aside, sufficed. It was nothing buta make-shift clothes closet. He turned from it, switched off theflashlight, and stood staring meditatively into the darkness. In astrange house, with the knowledge to begin with that what he sought wascarefully hidden, it was no sinecure to find that package. He had neverfor a moment imagined that it would be. But of one thing, however, therewas no uncertainty in his mind--he would get the package!--by searchif possible, by other means if search failed. It was now close to oneo'clock. If by two o'clock his efforts had been fruitless, Spider Jackwould hand over the package--at the revolver point! It was quite simple!Meanwhile--Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, and, going over tothe safe, knelt down in front of it--meanwhile, as well begin here asanywhere else.
The trained fingers closed on the handle--and on the instant, as thoughin startled amazement, shifted to the dial. They came back to thehandle--a wrench--then a low, amused chuckle--and the door swung open.The great, unwieldy thing was only a monumental bluff! It not only hadnot been locked, but it COULD NOT be locked--the mechanism was out oforder, the bolts could not be moved by so much as a hair's breadth!
Still chuckling, Jimmie Dale shot the flashlight's ray into the interiorof the safe--and the chuckle died on his lips, and into his face came alook of strained bewilderment. Inside, everything was in chaos,books, papers, a miscellany of articles, as though they had first beenruthlessly pulled out on the floor, then gathered up in an armful andcrammed back inside again. For an instant he did not move, and then aqueer, hard, mirthless smile drew down the corners of his mouth. With asort of bitter, expectant nod of his head, he turned the light upon thedoor of the safe. Yes, there were the scratches that the tools had left;and, as though in sardonic jest, the holes, where the steel bit hadbored, were plugged with putty and rubbed over with some black substancethat was still wet and came off, smearing his finger, as he touched it.It could not have been done long ago, then! How long? A half hour--anhour? Not more than that!
Mechanically he closed the door of the safe, rose to his feet and,almost heedless of noise now, the flashlight ray dancing before him,he jumped across to the old-fashioned cabinet and pulled the door open.Here, as within the safe, all inside, plain evidence of thorough, ifhasty, search, was scattered and tossed about in hopeless confusion.
He shut the cabinet door; the flashlight went out; and he stood likea man stunned, the sense of some abysmal disaster upon him. He was toolate! The game was up! If it had ever been here, the package was gonenow--GONE! The Crime Club had been here before him!
"The game was up! The game was up!"--his mind seemed to keep onrepeating that. The Crime Club had beaten him by an hour, at most,and had been here, and had searched. It was strange, though, that theyshould have been at such curious pains to cover their tracks by leavingthe room in order, by such paltry efforts to make the safe appearuntouched when the first glance that was at all critical would discloseimmediately what had been done! Why should they need to cover theirtracks at all; or, if it was necessary, why, above all, in such apitifully inadequate way! His mind barked back to the same ghastlyrefrain--"the game was up!"
NO! Not yet! There was still a chance! There was still Spider Jack!Suppose, in spite of their search, they had failed to find the package!Jimmie Dale's lips set in a thin line, as he started abruptly towardthe door. There was still that chance, and one thing was grimlycertain--Spider Jack would, at least, show him where the package HADBEEN!
And then, halfway to the door, he halted suddenly, and stoodstill--listening. An electric bell was ringing loudly, imperiously,somewhere upstairs. Followed almost immediately the sound of some one,Spider Jack presumably, moving hurriedly about overhead; and then, amoment later, steps coming down the staircase in the adjoining room.
Jimmie Dale drew back, flattening himself against the wall. Spider Jackentered the room, stumbled across it, in the darkness, fumbled for thedoor that led into his little shop, opened it, passed through, fumbledaround in there again, for matches evidently, then lighted a gas jet inthe store, and, going to the street door, opened it.
Jimmie Dale had edged along the wall a little to a position where he hadan unobstructed view through the open doorway connecting the shop andthe room in which he stood. Spider Jack, in trousers and shirt, hastilydonned, no doubt, as he had got out of bed, was standing in the streetdoorway, and beyond him loomed the forms of several men. Spider Jackstepped aside to allow his visitors to enter--and suddenly, a cry barelysuppressed upon his lips, Jimmie Dale involuntarily strained forward.Three men had entered, but his eyes were fixed, fascinated, upononly one--the first of the three. Was it an hallucination? Was hemad---dreaming? It was Hilton Travers, THE CHAUFFEUR--the man whom hecould have sworn he had last seen dead, lashed in that chair, in thatghastly death chamber of the Crime Club!
"Rather rough on you, Spider, to pull you out of bed at this hour," thechauffeur was saying apologetically.
"Oh, that's all right, seein' it's you, Travers," Spider Jack answered,gruffly amiable. "Only I was kind of lookin' for you last night."
"I know," the chauffeur replied; "but I couldn't connect with my friendshere. Shake hands with them, Spider--Bob Marvin--Harry Stead."
"Glad to know you, gents," said Spider Jack, with a handgrip apiece.
The chauffeur lowered his voice a little.
"I suppose we're alone here, eh, Spider? Yes? Well, then, you know whatI've come for--that package--Marvin and Stead, here, are the ones thatare in on it with me. Get it for me, will you, Spider?"
"Sure--Mr. Johansson!" Spider grinned. "Sure! Come on into the back roomand make yourselves comfortable. I'll be mabbe five minutes, or so."
Jimmie Dale's brain was whirling. What did it mean? He could not seemto understand. His mind seemed to refuse its functions. Travers, thechauffeur--ALIVE! He drew in his breath sharply. That curtain in thecorner! He must see this out now! They were coming! Quick, noiseless,he stole along the side of the wall, reached the corner, and slipped inbehind the curtain, as Spider Jack, striking a match, entered the room.
Spider Jack lighted the gas, and, as the others followed behind him,waved them toward the chairs around the table.
"I'll just ask you gents not to leave the room," he said meaningly, overhis shoulder, as he stepped toward the rear door. "It's kind of a fad ofmine to k
eep some things even from my wife!"
"All right, Spider--I understand," the chauffeur returned readily.
Jimmie Dale's knife cut a tiny slit in the cretonne on a level with hiseyes. The three men had seated themselves at the table, and appeared tobe listening intently. Spider Jack's footsteps echoed back as he crossedthe rear room, sounded dull and muffled descending the stoop outside,and died away.
"I told you it wasn't in the house!" the man who had been introduced asStead laughed shortly. "We wasted the hour we had here."
The third man spoke crisply, incisively, to the chauffeur.
"Turn down that gas jet a little! You've got across with it so far--butyou can't stand a searchlight, Clarke!"
And at the words, in a flash, the meaning of it, all of it, to the lastdetail that was spelling death, ruin, and disaster for her, the Tocsin,for himself as well, burst upon Jimmie Dale. That VOICE! He would haveknown it, recognised it, among a thousand--it was the masked man of thenight before, the leader, the head of the Crime Club! And it was notTravers there at all! He remembered now, too well, that second room theyhad showed him in the Crime Club--its multitude of disguises, thoughin this case they had the dead man's clothes ready to their hands--theleader's boast that impersonation was but child's play to them! And nowhe understood why they had covered up the traces of their search in onlyso curiously inadequate a manner. They had failed to find the package,and, as a last resort, had adopted the ruse of impersonating HiltonTravers, the chauffeur, which made it necessary that when they calledSpider Jack from his bed, as they had just done, that Spider Jack, at aCASUAL glance, should notice nothing amiss--but it would be no more thana casual glance, for, who should know better than they, he would nothave to go for the package to any place that they had disturbed! And he,Jimmie Dale, could only stand here and watch them, helpless, powerlessto move! Three of them! A step out into the room was to invite certaindeath. It would not matter, his death--if he could gain anythingfor her, for the Tocsin, by it. But what could he gain--by dying? Heclenched his hands until the nails bit into the flesh.
Spider Jack re-entered the room, carrying what looked like a large,bulky, manila envelope, heavily sealed, in his hand. He tossed it on thetable.
"There you are, Travers!" he said.
"I wonder," suggested the leader pleasantly, "if, now that we're here,Travers, your friend would mind letting us have this room for a fewminutes to ourselves to clean up the business?"
"Sure!" agreed Spider Jack cordially. "You're welcome to it! I'll waitout here in the store until you say the word."
He went out, closing the door after him. The leader picked up thepackage.
"We'll take no chances with this," he said grimly. "It's been too closea call. After we've had a look at it, we'll put it out of harm's way onthe spot, here, while we've got it--before we leave!"
He ripped the package open, and disclosed perhaps a dozenofficial-looking documents, besides a miscellaneous number of others.He took up the first of the papers, glanced through it hurriedly, thentossed it to the pseudo chauffeur.
"Tear it up, and tear it up--SMALL!" he ordered tersely. The next,after examining it as he had the first, he tossed to the other man. "Goahead!"--curtly. "Work fast! From the looks of these, Travers had uscold! There's proof enough here of LaSalle's murder to send us all tothe chair!"
He went on glancing through the documents; and then suddenly, joiningthe others in their work, began to rip and tear at the papers himself.
A sort of cold horror had settled upon Jimmie Dale, and his foreheadwas clammy wet. The inhuman irony of it! That he should stand there andwatch, impotent to prevent it, the destruction of what he would havegiven his life to secure! And then slowly, a grim, hard, merciless smilecame to his lips. He had recognised the leader's voice--now he wouldrecognise the leader's FACE. At least, that was left to him--perhaps themaster trump of all. It would not be very hard to find the Crime Clubnow--with that man to lead the way!
The scraps of paper, tiny shreds, mounted into a heap on the table--andwith the last of the contents of the package destroyed, the leader stoodup.
"Put these pieces in your pockets; we don't want to leave them here," hedirected quietly. "And then let's get out."
In scarcely a moment, the last scrap of paper had vanished. The threemen walked to the door, passed through it, and joined Spider Jack in thestore--and Jimmie Dale, slipping out from behind the curtain, gained thedoor of the rear room, crept through it, reached the stoop, and then,darting like the wind across the yard, was over the fence in a second,and in another was out of the alleyway and on the street.
He was in time--in plenty of time. They had just left Spider Jack's,and were, perhaps, fifty yards or so ahead of him. He slouched on behindthem--the cold, grim smile on his lips once more. It was the Crime Clubnow, that hell's cradle where their devil's schemes were hatched,that was the one thing left to him; they would lead him to that, andthen--and then it would be his turn to STRIKE!
They turned the first corner. And suddenly, as the racing engine of anautomobile caught his ear, he broke into a run, and dashed around thecorner after them--in time to see them jump into a car, and the carspeed off along the street! He halted, as though he were suddenlydazed--started involuntarily to run forward again--stopped with a hollowlaugh at the futility of it--and stood still and motionless on thesidewalk.
And then he swayed a little, and his face grew gray. Failure, defeat,ruin--in that moment he knew them all to their bitterest dregs. Howcould he go to her! How could he face her, and tell her that they werebeaten, that the last hope was gone, that he had failed!
"God!" he cried aloud, and clenched his hands.
Then deep in his consciousness a thought stirred, and he swept a shakinghand across his eyes. Why had it come again, that thought! Did it meanthat HE must play--the last card! There was a way--there had always beena way. The way the Crime Club took--MURDER. It was their own weapon!If the man who posed as Henry LaSalle were killed! If that man--werekilled!
"The Magpie was to be there at three!" he muttered--and startedmechanically back along the street.