CHAPTER IV
THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE
It was still early in the evening, but a little after nine o'clock.The Fifth Avenue bus wended its way, jouncing its patrons, particularlythose on the top seats, across town, and turned into Riverside Drive. Ashort distance behind the bus, a limousine rolled down the cross streetleisurely, silently.
As the lights of passing craft on the Hudson and a myriad scintillating,luminous points dotting the west shore came into view, Jimmie Dale roseimpulsively from his seat on the top of the bus, descended the littlecircular iron ladder at the rear, and dropped off into the street. Itwas only a few blocks farther to his residence on the Drive, andthe night was well worth the walk; besides, restless, disturbed, andperplexed in mind, the walk appealed to him.
He stepped across to the sidewalk and proceeded slowly along. A monthhad gone by and he had not heard a word from--HER. The break on WestBroadway, the murder of Metzer in Moriarty's gambling hell, the theftof Markel's diamond necklace had followed each other in quicksuccession--and then this month of utter silence, with no sign of her,as though indeed she had never existed.
But it was not this temporary silence on her part that troubled JimmieDale now. In the years that he had worked with this unknown, mysteriousaccomplice of his whom he had never seen, there had been longerintervals than a bare month in which he had heard nothing from her--itwas not that. It was the failure, total, absolute, and complete,that was the only result for the month of ceaseless, unremitting,doggedly-expended effort, even as it had been the result many timesbefore, in an attempt to solve the enigma that was so intimate and vitala factor in his own life.
If he might lay any claims to cleverness, his resourcefulness, atleast, he was forced to admit, was no match for hers. She came, she wentwithout being seen--and behind her remained, instead of clews to heridentity, only an amazing, intangible mystery, that left him at timesappalled and dismayed. How did she know about those conditions in WestBroadway, how did she know about Metzer's murder, how did she know aboutMarkel and Wilbur--how did she know about a hundred other affairs of thesame sort that had happened since that night, years ago now, when out ofpure adventure he had tampered with Marx's, the jeweller's strongroom in Maiden Lane, and she had, mysteriously then, too, solved HISidentity, discovered him to be the Gray Seal?
Jimmie Dale, wrapped up in his own thoughts, entirely oblivious to hissurroundings, traversed another block. There had never been since theworld began, and there would never be again, so singular and bizarre apartnership as this--of hers and his. He, Jimmie Dale, with his strangedouble life, one of New York's young bachelor millionaires, one whosesocial status was unquestioned; and she, who--who WHAT? That was justit! Who what? What was she? What was her name? What one personal,intimate thing did he know about her? And what was to be the end?Not that he would have severed his association with her--not forworlds!--though every time, that, by some new and curious method, one ofher letters found its way into his hands, outlining some fresh coupfor him to execute, his peril and danger of discovery was increased instaggering ratio. To-day, the police hunted the Gray Seal as they hunteda mad dog; the papers stormed and raved against him: in every detectivebureau of two continents he was catalogued as the most notoriouscriminal of the age--and yet, strange paradox, no single crime had everbeen committed!
Jimmie Dale's strong, fine-featured face lighted up. Crime! Thanks toher, there were those who blessed the name of the Gray Seal, thoseinto whose lives had come joy, relief from misery, escape from deatheven--and their blessings were worth a thousandfold the risk and perilof disaster that threatened him at every minute of the day.
"Thank God for her!" murmured Jimmie Dale softly. "But--but if I couldonly find her, see her, know who she is, talk to her, and hear hervoice!" Then he smiled a little wanly. "It's been a pretty toughmonth--and nothing to show for it!"
It had! It had been one of the hardest months through which Jimmie Dalehad ever lived. The St. James, that most exclusive club, his favouritehaunt, had seen nothing of him; the easel in his den, that was hishobby, had been untouched; there had been days even when he had notcrossed the threshold of his home. Every resource at his command hehad called into play in an effort to solve the mystery. For nearly theentire month, following first this lead and then that, he had lived inthe one disguise that he felt confident she knew nothing of--that was,or, rather, had become, almost a dual personality with him. From theSanctuary, that miserable and disreputable room in a tenement on theEast Side, a tenement that had three separate means of entrance andexit, he had emerged day after day as Larry the Bat, a character as wellknown and as well liked in the exclusive circles of the underworld aswas Jimmie Dale in the most exclusive strata of New York's societyand fashion. And it had been useless--all useless. Through his ownendeavours, through the help of his friends of the underworld, thelives of half a dozen men, Bert Hagan's on West Broadway, for instance,Markel's, and others', had been laid bare to the last shred, but nowherecould be found the one vital point that linked their lives with hers,that would account for her intimate knowledge of them, and so furnishhim with the clew that would then with certainty lead him to a solutionof her identity.
It was baffling, puzzling, unbelievable, bordering, indeed, on themiraculous--herself, everything about her, her acts, her methods, hercleverness, intangible in one sense, were terrifically real in another.Jimmie Dale shook his head. The miraculous and this practical, everydaylife were wide and far apart. There was nothing miraculous about it--itwas only that the key to it was, so far, beyond his reach.
And then suddenly Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders in consonance witha whimsical change in both mood and thought.
"Larry the Bat, is a hard taskmaster!" he muttered facetiously. "I'mafraid I'm not very presentable this evening--no bath this morning,and no shave, and, after nearly a month of make-up, that beastly greasepaint gets into the skin creases in a most intimate way." He chuckledas the thought of old Jason, his butler, came to him. "I saw Jason,torn between two conflicting emotions, shaking his head over the blackcircles under my eyes last night--he didn't know whether to worry overthe first signs of a galloping decline, or break his heart at witnessingthe young master he had dandled on his knees going to the damnationbowwows and turning into a confirmed roue! I guess I'll have to mindmyself, though. Even Carruthers detached his mind far enough from hiseditorial desk and the hope of exclusively publishing the news of theGray Seal's capture in the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, to tell me I was lookingseedy. It's wonderful the way a little paint will metamorphose a man!Well, anyway, here's for a good hot tub to-night, and a fresh start!"
He quickened his pace. There were still three blocks to go, and here wasno hurrying, jostling crowd to impede his progress; indeed, as far as hecould see up the Drive, there was not a pedestrian in sight. And then,as he walked, involuntarily, insistently, his mind harked back into theold groove again.
"I've tried to picture her," said Jimmie Dale softly to himself. "I'vetried to picture her a hundred, yes, a thousand times, and--"
A bus, rumbling cityward, went by him, squeaking, creaking, and rattlingin its uneasy joints--and out of the noise, almost at his elbow itseemed, a voice spoke his name--and in that instant intuitively he KNEW,and it thrilled him, stopped the beat of his heart, as, dulcet, soft,clear as the note of a silver bell it fell--and only one word:
"Jimmie!"
He whirled around. A limousine, wheels just grazing the curb, wasgliding slowly and silently past him, and from the window a woman'sarm, white-gloved and dainty, was extended, and from the fingers to thepavement fluttered an envelope--and the car leaped forward.
For the fraction of a second, Jimmie Dale stood dazed, immovable, agamut of emotions, surprise, fierce exultation, amazement, a strangejoy, a mighty uplift, swirling upon him--and then, snatching up theenvelope from the ground, he sprang out into the road after the car. Itwas the one chance he had ever had, the one chance she had ever givenhim, and he had seen--a white-gloved arm! He c
ould not reach the car,it was speeding away from him like an arrow now, but there was somethingelse that would do just as well, something that with all her clevernessshe had overlooked--the car's number dangling on the rear axle, therays of the little lamp playing on the enamelled surface of the plate!Gasping, panting, he held his own for a yard or more, and there floatedback to him a little silvery laugh from the body of the limousine, andthen Jimmie Dale laughed, too, and stopped--it was No. 15,836!
He stood and watched the car disappear up the Drive. What deliciousirony! A month of gruelling, ceaseless toil that had been vain, futile,useless--and the key, when he was not looking for it, unexpectedly,through no effort of his, was thrust into his hand--No. 15,836!
Jimmie Dale, the gently ironic smile still on his lips, those slim,supersensitive fingers of his subconsciously noting that the texture ofthe envelope was the same as she always used, retraced his steps to thesidewalk.
"Number fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six," said Jimmie Dalealoud--and halted at the curb as though rooted to the spot. It soundedstrangely familiar, that number! He repeated it over again slowly:"One-five-eight-three-six." And the smile left his lips, and upon hisface came the look of a chastened child. She had used a duplicate plate!Fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty-six was the number of one ofhis own cars--his own particular runabout!
For a moment longer he stood there, undecided whether to laugh or swear,and then his eyes fastened mechanically on the envelope he was twirlingin his fingers. Here, at least, was something that was not elusive;that, on the contrary, as a hundred others in the past had done,outlined probably a grim night's work ahead for the Gray Seal! And, ifit were as those others had been, every minute from the moment of itsreceipt was precious time. He stepped under the nearest street light,and tore the envelope open.
"Dear Philanthropic Crook," it began--and then followed two closelywritten pages. Jimmie Dale read them, his lips growing graduallytighter, a smouldering light creeping into his dark eyes, and once heemitted a short, low whistle of consternation--that was at the end, ashe read the post-script that was heavily underscored: "Work quickly.They will raid to-night. Be careful. Look out for Kline, he is thesharpest man in the United States secret service."
For a brief instant longer, Jimmie Dale stood under the street lamp,his mind in a lightning-quick way cataloguing every point in her letter,viewing every point from a myriad angles, constructing, devising,mapping out a plan to dove-tail into them--and then Jimmie Dale swung ona downtown bus. There was neither time nor occasion to go home now--thatmarvellous little kit of burglar's tools that peeped from their tinypockets in that curious leather undervest, and that reposed now inthe safe in his den, would be useless to him to-night; besides, in thebreast pocket of his coat, neatly folded, was a black silk mask, and,relics of his role of Larry the Bat, an automatic revolver, anelectric flashlight, a steel jimmy, and a bunch of skeleton keys, weredistributed among the other pockets of his smart tweed suit.
Jimmie Dale changed from the bus to the subway, leaving behind him,strewn over many blocks, the tiny and minute fragments into which he hadtorn her letter; at Astor Place he left the subway, walked to Broadway,turned uptown for a block to Eighth Street, then along Eighth Streetalmost to Sixth Avenue--and stopped.
A rather shabby shop, a pitiful sort of a place, displaying in itswindow a heterogeneous conglomeration of cheap odds and ends, inkbottles, candy, pencils, cigarettes, pens, toys, writing pads, marbles,and a multitude of other small wares, confronted him. Within, a little,old, sweet-faced, gray-haired woman stood behind the counter, potteringover the rearrangement of some articles on the shelves.
"My word!" said Jimmie Dale softly to himself. "You wouldn't believe it,would you! And I've always wondered how these little stores managed tomake both ends meet. Think of that old soul making fifteen or twentythousand dollars from a layout like this--even if it has taken her alifetime!"
Jimmie Dale had halted nonchalantly and unconcernedly by the curb,not too near the window, busied apparently in an effort to light arefractory cigarette; and then, about to enter the store, he gazedaimlessly across the street for a moment instead. A man came brisklyaround the corner from Sixth Avenue, opened the store door, and went in.
Jimmie Dale drew back a little, and turned his head again as the doorclosed--and a sudden, quick, alert, and startled look spread over hisface.
The man who had entered bent over the counter and spoke to the old lady.She seemed to listen with a dawning terror creeping over her features,and then her hands went piteously to the thin hair behind her ears. Theman motioned toward a door at the rear of the store. She hesitated,then came out from behind the counter, and swayed a little as though herlimbs would not support her weight.
Jimmie Dale's lips thinned.
"I'm afraid," he muttered slowly, "I'm afraid that I'm too late evennow." And then, as she came to the door and turned the key on theinside: "Pray Heaven she doesn't turn the light out--or somebody mightthink I was trying to break in!"
But in that respect Jimmie Dale's fears were groundless. She did notturn out either of the gas jets that lighted the little shop; instead,in a faltering, reluctant sort of manner, she led the way directlythrough the door in the rear, and the man followed her.
The shop was empty--and Jimmie Dale was standing against the door on theoutside. His position was perfectly natural--a hundred passers-by wouldhave noted nothing but a most commonplace occurrence--a man in the actof entering a store. And, if he appeared to fumble and have trouble withthe latch, what of it! Jimmie Dale, however, was not fumbling--hidden byhis back that was turned to the street, those wonderful fingers of his,in whose tips seemed embodied and concentrated every one of the humansenses, were working quickly, surely, accurately, without so much as thewasted movement of a single muscle.
A faint tinkle--and the key within fell from the lock to the floor. Afaint click--and the bolt of the lock slipped back. Jimmie Dale restoredthe skeleton keys and a little steel instrument that accompanied themto his pocket--and quietly opened the door. He stepped inside, picked upthe key from the floor, inserted it in the lock, closed the door behindhim, and locked it again.
"To guard against interruption," observed Jimmie Dale, a littlequizzically.
He was, perhaps, thirty seconds behind the others. He crossed the shopnoiselessly, cautiously, and passed through the door at the rear. Itopened into a short passage that, after a few feet, gave on a sort ofcorridor at right angles--and down this latter, facing him, at the end,the door of a lighted room was open, and he could see the figure of theman who had entered the shop, back turned, standing on the threshold.Voices, indistinct, came to him.
The corridor itself was dark; and Jimmie Dale, satisfied that he wasfairly safe from observation, stole softly forward. He passed twodoors on his left--and the curious arrangement of the building that hadpuzzled him for a moment became clear. The store made the front of anold tenement building, with apartments above, and the rear of the storewas a sort of apartment, too--the old lady's living quarters.
Step by step, testing each one against a possible creaking of the floor,Jimmie Dale moved forward, keeping close up against one wall. The manpassed on into the room--and now Jimmie Dale could distinguish everyword that was being spoken; and, crouched up, in the dark corridor, inthe angle of the wall and the door jamb itself, could see plainly enoughinto the room beyond. Jimmie Dale's jaw crept out a little.
A young man, gaunt, pale, wrapped in blankets, half sat, half reclinedin an invalid's chair; the old lady, on her knees, the tears streamingdown her face, had her arms around the sick man's neck; while the otherman, apparently upset at the scene, tugged vigorously at long, graymustaches.
"Sammy! Sammy!" sobbed the woman piteously. "Say you didn't do it,Sammy--say you didn't do it!"
"Look here, Mrs. Matthews," said the man with the gray mustaches gently,"now don't you go to making things any harder. I've got to do my dutyjust the same, and take your son."
The young man, a hectic flush beginning to burn on his cheeks, gazedwildly from one to the other.
"What--what is it?" he cried out.
The man threw back his coat and displayed a badge on his vest.
"I'm Kline of the secret service," he said gravely. "I'm sorry, Sammy,but I want you for that little job in Washington at the bureau--beforeyou left on sick leave!"
Sammy Matthews struggled away from his mother's arms, pulled himselfforward in his chair--and his tongue licked dry lips.
"What--what job?" he whispered thickly.
"You know, don't you?" the other answered steadily. He took a large,flat pocketbook from his pocket, opened it, and took out a five-dollarbill. He held this before the sick man's eyes, but just out of reach,one finger silently indicating the lower left-hand corner.
Matthews stared at it for a moment, and the hectic flush faded to agrayish pallor, and a queer, impotent sound gurgled in his throat.
"I see you recognise it," said the other quietly. "It's open and shut,Sammy. That little imperfection in the plate's got you, my boy."
"Sammy! Sammy!" sobbed the woman again. "Sammy, say you didn't do it!"
"It's a lie!" said Matthews hoarsely. "It's a lie! That plate wascondemned in the bureau for that imperfection--condemned and destroyed."
"Condemned TO BE destroyed," corrected the other, without raising hisvoice. "There's a little difference there, Sammy--about twenty years'difference--in the Federal pen. But it wasn't destroyed; this note wasprinted from it by one of the slickest gangs of counterfeiters in theUnited States--but I don't need to tell you that, I guess you know whothey are. I've been after them a long time, and I've got them now, justas tight as I've got you. Instead of destroying that plate, you stoleit, and disposed of it to the gang. How much did they give you?"
Matthews' face seemed to hold a dumb horror, and his fingers picked atthe arms of the chair. His mother had moved from beside him now, andboth her hands were patting at the man's sleeve in a pitiful way, whileagain and again she tried to speak, but no words would come.
"It's a lie!" said Matthews again, in a colourless, mechanical way.
The man glanced at Mrs. Matthews as he put the five-dollar note backinto his pocket, seemed to choke a little, shook his head, and all traceof the official sternness that had crept into his voice disappeared.
"It's no good," he said in a low tone. "Don't do that, Mrs. Matthews,I've got to do my duty." He leaned a little toward the chair. "It's deadto rights, Sammy. You might as well make a clean breast of it. It wasup to you and Al Gregor to see that the plate was destroyed. It WASN'Tdestroyed; instead, it shows up in the hands of a gang of counterfeitersthat I've been watching for months. Furthermore, I've got the plateitself. And finally, though I haven't placed him under arrest yet forfear you might hear of it before I wanted you to and make a get-away,I've got Al Gregor where I can put my hands on him, and I've got hisconfession that you and he worked the game between you to get that plateout of the bureau and dispose of it to the gang."
"Oh, my God!"--it came in a wild cry from the sick man, and in adesperate, lurching way he struggled up to his feet. "Al Gregor saidthat? Then--then I'm done!" He clutched at his temples. "But it's nottrue--it's not true! If the plate was stolen, and it must have beenstolen, or that note wouldn't have been found, it was Al Gregor whostole it--I didn't, I tell you! I knew nothing of it, except that he andI were responsible for it and--and I left it to him--that's the only wayI'm to blame. He's caught, and he's trying to get out of it with a lightsentence by pretending to turn State's evidence, but--but I'll fighthim--he can't prove it--it's only his word against mine, and--"
The other shook his head again.
"It's no good, Sammy," he said, a touch of sternness back in his tonesagain. "I told you it was open and shut. It's not only Al Gregor. Oneof the gang got weak knees when I got him where I wanted him the othernight, and he swears that you are the one who DELIVERED the plate tothem. Between him and Gregor and what I know myself, I've got evidenceenough for any jury against every one of the rest of you."
Horror, fear, helplessness seemed to mingle in the sick man's staringeyes, and he swayed unsteadily upon his feet.
"I'm innocent!" he screamed out. "But I'm caught, I'm caught in a net,and I can't get out--they lied to you--but no one will believe it anymore than you do and--and it means twenty years for me--oh, God!--twentyyears, and--" His hands went wriggling to his temples again, and hetoppled back in a faint into the chair.
"You've killed him! You've killed my boy!" the old lady shrieked outpiteously, and flung herself toward the senseless figure.
The man jumped for the table across the room, on which was a row ofbottles, snatched one up, drew the cork, smelled it, and ran back withthe bottle. He poured a little of the contents into his cupped hand,held it under young Matthews' nostrils, and pushed the bottle into Mrs.Matthews' hands.
"Bathe his forehead with this, Mrs. Matthews," he directed reassuringly."He'll be all right again in a moment. There, see--he's coming aroundnow."
There was a long, fluttering sigh, and Matthews opened his eyes; thena moment's silence; and then he spoke, with an effort, with long pausesbetween the words:
"Am--I--to--go--now?"
The words seemed to ring absolute terror in the old lady's ears. Sheturned, and dropped to her knees on the floor.
"Mr. Kline, Mr. Kline," she sobbed out, "oh, for God's love, don't takehim! Let him off, let him go! He's my boy--all I've got! You've gota mother, haven't you? You know--" The tears were streaming down thesweet, old face again. "Oh, won't you, for God's dear name, won't youlet him go? Won't--"
"Stop!" the man cried huskily. He was mopping at his face with hishandkerchief. "I thought I was case-hardened, I ought to be--but I guessI'm not. But I've got to do my duty. You're only making it worse forSammy there, as well as me."
Her arms were around his knees now, clinging there.
"Why can't you let him off!" she pleaded hysterically. "Why can'tyou! Why can't you! Nobody would know, and I'd do anything--I'd payanything--anything--I'll give you ten--fifteen thousand dollars!"
"My poor woman," he said kindly, placing his hand on her head, "you aretalking wildly. Apart altogether from the question of duty, even ifI succeeded in hushing the matter up, I would probably at least besuspected and certainly discharged, and I have a family to support--andif I were caught I'd get ten years in the Federal prison for it. I'msorry for this; I believe it's your boy's first offence, and if I couldlet him off I would."
"But you can--you can!" she burst out, rocking on her knees, clingingtighter still to him, as though in a paroxysm of fear that he mightsomehow elude her. "It will kill him--it will kill my boy. And you cansave him! And even if they discharged you, what would that mean againstmy boy's life! You wouldn't suffer, your family wouldn't suffer,I'll--I'll take care of that--perhaps I could raise a little more thanfifteen thousand--but, oh, have pity, have mercy--don't take him away!"
The man stared at her a moment, stared at the white face on thereclining chair--and passed his hand heavily across his eyes.
"You will! You will!" It came in a great surging cry of joy from the oldlady. "You will--oh, thank God, thank God!--I can see it in your face!"
"I--I guess I'm soft," he said huskily, and stooped and raised Mrs.Matthews to her feet. "Don't cry any more. It'll be all right--it'll beall right. I'll--I'll fix it up somehow. I haven't made any arrests yet,and--well, I'll take my chances. I'll get the plate and turn it over toyou to-morrow, only--only it's got to be destroyed in my presence."
"Yes, yes!" she cried, trying to smile through her tears--and thenshe flung her arms around her son's neck again. "And when you cometo-morrow, I'll be ready with the money to do my share, too, and--"
But Sammy Matthews shook his head.
"You're wrong, both of you," he said weakly. "You're a white man,Kline. But destroying that plate won't save me. The minute a single noteprinted from it shows up, they'll know back there in Washing
ton that theplate was stolen, and--"
"No; you're safe enough there," the other interposed heavily. "Knowingwhat was up, you don't think I'd give the gang a chance to get theminto circulation, do you? I got them all when I got the plate. And"--hesmiled a little anxiously--"I'll bring them here to be destroyed withthe plate. It would finish me now, as well as you, if one of them evershowed up. Say," he said suddenly, with a catch in his breath, "I--Idon't think I know what I'm doing."
Mrs. Matthews reached out her hands to him.
"What can I say to you!" she said brokenly, "What--"
Jimmie Dale drew back along the wall. A little way from the door hequickened his pace, still moving, however, with extreme caution. Theywere still talking behind him as he turned from the corridor into thepassageway leading to the store, and from there into the store itself.And then suddenly, in spite of caution, his foot slipped on the barefloor. It was not much--just enough to cause his other foot, poisedtentatively in air, to come heavily down, and a loud and complainingcreak echoed from the floor.
Jimmie Dale's jaws snapped like a steel trap. From down the corridorcame a sudden, excited exclamation in the little old lady's voice, andthen her steps sounded running toward the store. In the fraction of asecond Jimmie Dale was at the front door.
"Clumsy, blundering fool!" he whispered fiercely to himself as he turnedthe key, opened the door noiselessly until it was just ajar, and turnedthe key in the lock again, leaving the bolt protruding out. One stepbackward, and he was rapping on the counter with his knuckles. "Isn'tanybody here?" he called out loudly. "Isn't any--oh!"--as Mrs. Matthewsappeared in the back doorway. "A package of cigarettes, please."
She stared at him, a little frightened, her eyes red and swollen withrecent crying.
"How--how did you get in here?" she asked tremendously.
"I beg your pardon?" inquired Jimmie Dale, in polite surprise.
"I--I locked the door--I'm sure I did," she said, more to herself thanto Jimmie Dale, and hurried across the floor to the door as she spoke.
Jimmie Dale, still politely curious, turned to watch her. For a momentbewilderment and a puzzled look were in her face--and then a sort ofsurprised relief.
"I must have turned the key in the lock without shutting the doortight," she explained, "for I knew I turned the key."
Jimmie Dale bent forward to examine the lock--and nodded.
"Yes," he agreed, with a smile. "I should say so." Then, gravelycourteous: "I'm sorry to have intruded."
"It is nothing," she answered; and, evidently anxious to be rid of him,moved quickly around behind the counter. "What kind of cigarettes do youwant?"
"Egyptians--any kind," said Jimmie Dale, laying a bill on the counter.
He pocketed the cigarettes and his change, and turned to the door.
"Good-evening," he said pleasantly--and went out.
Jimmie Dale smiled a little curiously, a little tolerantly. As hestarted along the street, he heard the door of the little shop closewith a sort of supercareful bang, the key turned, and the latch rattleto try the door--the little old lady was bent on making no mistake asecond time!
And then the smile left Jimmie Dale's lips, his face grew strained andserious, and he broke into a run down the block to Sixth Avenue. Here hepaused for an instant--there was the elevated, the surface cars--whichwould be the quicker? He looked up the avenue. There was no traincoming; the nearest surface car was blocks away. He bit his lips invexation--and then with a jump he was across the street and hailing apassing taxicab that his eyes had just lighted on.
"Got a fare?" called Jimmie Dale.
"No, sir," answered the chauffeur, bumping his car to an abrupt halt.
"Good!" Jimmie Dale ran alongside, and yanked the door open. "Do youknow where the Palace Saloon on the Bowery is?"
"Yes, sir," replied the man.
Jimmie Dale held a ten-dollar bank note up before the chauffeur's eyes.
"Earn that in four minutes, then," he snapped--and sprang into the cab.
The taxicab swerved around on little better than two wheels, started ona mad dash down the Avenue--and Jimmie Dale braced himself grimly inhis seat. The cab swerved again, tore across Waverly Place, circuitedWashington Square, crossed Broadway, and whirled finally into the upperend of the Bowery.
Jimmie Dale spoke once--to himself--plaintively.
"It's too bad I can't let old Carruthers in on this for a scoop with hisprecious MORNING NEWS-ARGUS--but if I get out of it alive myself, I'lldo well! Wonder if the day'll ever come when he finds out that his verydear friend and old college pal, Jimmie Dale, is the Gray Seal that he'sturned himself inside out for about four years now to catch, and thathe'd trade his soul with the devil any time to lay hands on! Good oldCarruthers! 'The most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in theannals of crime'--am I?"
The cab drew up at the curb. Jimmie Dale sprang out, shoved the billinto the chauffeur's hand, stepped quickly across the sidewalk, andpushed his way through the swinging doors of the Palace Saloon. Insideleisurely and nonchalantly, he walked down past the length of the bar toa door at the rear. This opened into a passageway that led to the sideentrance of the saloon on the cross street. Jimmie Dale emerged fromthe side entrance, crossed the street, retraced his steps to the Bowery,crossed over, and walked rapidly down that thoroughfare for two blocks.Here he turned east into the cross street; and here, once more, his pacebecame leisurely and unhurried.
"It's a strange coincidence, though possibly a very happy one," saidJimmie Dale, as he walked along, "that it should be on the same streetas the Sanctuary--ah, this ought to be the place!"
An alleyway, corresponding to the one that flanked the tenement where,as Larry the Bat, he had paid room rent as a tenant for several years,in fact, the alleyway next above it, and but a short block away,intersected the street, narrow, black, and uninviting. Jimmie Dale, ashe passed, peered down its length.
"No light--that's good!" commented Jimmie Dale to himself. Then: "Windowopens on alleyway ten feet from ground--shoe store, Russian Jew, inbasement--go in front door--straight hallway--room at end--RussianJew probably accomplice--be careful that he does not hear you movingoverhead"--Jimmie Dale's mind, with that curious faculty of his, wassubconsciously repeating snatches from her letter word for word, evenas he noted the dimly lighted, untidy, and disorderly interior of what,from strings of leather slippers that decorated the cellarlike entrance,was evidently a cheap and shoddy shoe store in the basement of thebuilding.
The building itself was rickety and tumble-down, three stories high, andgiven over undoubtedly to gregarious foreigners of the poorer class, arabbit burrow, as it were, having a multitude of roomers and lodgers.There was nothing ominous or even secretive about it--up the shortflight of steps to the entrance, even the door hung carelessly halfopen.
Jimmie Dale's slouch hat was pulled a little farther down over his eyesas he mounted the steps and entered the hallway. He listened a moment.A sort of subdued, querulous hubbub seemed to hum through the place, asvoices, men's, women's, and children's, echoing out from their variousrooms above, mingled together, and floated down the stairways in adiscordant medley. Jimmie Dale stepped lightly down the length ofthe hall--and listened again; this time intently, with his ear to thekeyhole of the door that made the end of the passage. There was not asound from within. He tried the door, smiled a little as he reached forhis keys, worked over the lock--and straightened up suddenly as hisear caught a descending step on the stairs. It was two flights up,however--and the door was unlocked now. Jimmie Dale opened it, and, likea shadow, slipped inside; and, as he locked the door behind him, smiledonce more--the door lock was but a paltry makeshift at best, but INSIDEhis fingers had touched a massive steel bolt that, when shot home, wouldyield when the door itself yielded--and not before. Without moving thebolt, he turned--and his flashlight for a moment swept the room.
"Not much like the way they describe this sort of place in storybooks!"murmured Jimmie Dale capriciously. "But I get the
idea. Mr. Russian Jewdownstairs makes a bluff at using it for a storeroom."
Again the flashlight made a circuit. Here, there, and everywhere,seemingly without any attempt at order, were piles of wooden shippingcases. Only the centre of the room was clear and empty; that, and avacant space against the wall by the window.
Jimmie Dale, moving without sound, went to the window. There was a shadeon it, and it was pulled down. He reached up underneath it, felt forthe window fastening, and unlocked it; then cautiously tested the windowitself by lifting it an inch or two--it slid easily in its grooves.
He stood then for a moment, hardfaced, a frown gathering his foreheadinto heavy furrows, as the flashlight's ray again and again dartedhither and thither. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in the roombut wooden packing cases. He lifted the cover of the one nearest to himand looked inside. It was quite empty, except for some pieces of heavycord, and a few cardboard shoe boxes that, in turn, were empty, too.
"It's here, of course," said Jimmie Dale thoughtfully to himself."Clever work, too! But I can't move half a hundred packing cases withoutthat chap below hearing me; and I can't do it in ten minutes, either,which, I imagine is the outside limit of time. Fortunately, though,these cases are not without their compensation--a dozen men could hidehere."
He began to move about the room. And now he stooped before one pile ofboxes and then another, curiously attempting to lift up the entire pilefrom the bottom. Some he could not move; others, by exerting all hisstrength, gave a little; and then, finally, over in one corner, he founda pile that appeared to answer his purpose.
"These are certainly empty," he muttered.
There was just room to squeeze through between them and the next stackof cases alongside; but, once through, by the simple expedient of movingthe cases out a little to take advantage of the angle made by thecorner of the room, he obtained ample space to stand comfortably uprightagainst the wall. But Jimmie Dale was not satisfied yet. Could he seeout into the room? He experimented with his flashlight--and carefullyshifted the screen of cases before him a little to one side. And yetstill he was not satisfied. With a sort of ironical droop at thecorners of his lips, as though suddenly there had flashed upon him theinspiration that fathered one of those whimsical ideas and fancies thatwere so essentially a characteristic of Jimmie Dale, he came out frombehind the cases, went across the room to the case he had opened when hefirst entered, took out the cord and the cover of one of the cardboardshoe boxes, and with these returned to his hiding place once more.
The sounds from the upper stories of the tenement now reached him hardlyat all; but from below, directly under his feet almost, he could hearsome one, the proprietor of the shoe store probably, walking about.
Tense, every faculty now on the alert, his head turned in a strained,attentive attitude, Jimmie Dale threw on the flashlight's tiny switch,took that intimate and thin metal case from his pocket, extracted adiamond-shaped, gray paper seal with the little tweezers, moistened theadhesive side, and stuck it in the centre of the white cardboard-boxcover, then tore the edges of the cardboard down until the whole wasjust small enough to slip into his pocket. Through the cardboard helooped a piece of cord, placard fashion, and with his pencil printed thefour words--"with the compliments of "--above the gray seal. Hesurveyed the result with a grim, mirthless chuckle--and put the piece ofcardboard in his pocket.
"I'm taking the longest chances I ever took in my life," said JimmieDale very seriously to himself, as his fingers twisted, and doubled,and tied the remaining pieces of cord together, and finally fashioned arunning noose in one end. "I don't--" The cord and the flashlight wentinto his pocket, the room was in darkness, the black mask was whippedfrom his breast pocket and adjusted to his face, and his automatic wasin his hand.
Came the creak of a footstep, as though on a ladder exactly below him,another, and another, receding curiously in its direction, yet at thesame time growing louder in sound as if nearer the floor--then a crackof light showed in the floor in the centre of the room. This held foran instant, then expanded suddenly into a great luminous square--andthrough a trapdoor, opened wide now, a man's head appeared.
Jimmie Dale's eyes, fixed through the space between the piles of cases,narrowed--there was, indeed, little doubt but that the shoe-storeproprietor below was an accomplice! The store served a most convenientpurpose in every respect--as a secret means of entry into the room, asa sort of guarantee of innocence for the room itself. Why not! To thesuperficial observer, to the man who might by some chance blunder intothe room--it was but an adjunct of the store itself!
The man in the trap-doorway paused with his shoulders above the floor,looked around, listened, then drew himself up, walked across the floor,and shot the heavy bolt on the door that led into the hallway of thehouse. He returned then to the trapdoor, bent over it, and whistledsoftly. Two more men, in answer to the summons, came up into the room.
"The Cap'll be along in a minute," one of them said. "Turn on thelight."
A switch clicked, flooding the room with sudden brilliancy from half adozen electric bulbs.
"Too many!" grunted the same voice again. "We ain't workingto-night--turn out half of 'em."
The sudden transition from the darkness for a moment dazzled JimmieDale's eyes--but the next moment he was searching the faces of the threemen. There were few crooks, few denizens of the crime world below thenow obsolete but still famous dead line that, as Larry the Bat, he didnot know at least by sight.
"Moulton, Whitie Burns, and Marty Dean," confided Jimmie Dale softlyto himself. "And I don't know of any worse, except--the Cap. And gunfighters, every one of them, too--nice odds, to say nothing of--"
"Here's the Cap now!" announced one of the three. "Hello, Cap, where'dyou raise the mustache?"
Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted to the trapdoor, and into them crept acontemptuous and sardonic smile--the man who was coming up now andhoisting himself to the floor was the man who, half an hour before, hadthreatened young Sammy Matthews with arrest.
The Cap, alias Bert Malone, alias a score of other names, closed thetrapdoor after him, pulled off his mustache and gray wig, tucked them inhis pocket, and faced his companions brusquely.
"Never mind about the mustache," he said curtly. "Get busy, the lot ofyou. Stir around and get the works out!"
"What for?" inquired Whitie Burns, a sharp, ferret-faced little man. "Wegot enough of the old stuff on hand now, and that bum break Gregor madewhen he pinched the cracked plate put the finish on that. Say, Cap--"
"Close your face, Whitie, and get the works out!" Malone cut in shortly."We've only got the whole night ahead of us--but we'll need it all.We're going to run the queer off that cracked plate."
One of the others, Marty Dean this time, a certain brutal aggressivenessin both features and physique, edged forward.
"Say, what's the lay?" he demanded. "A joke? We printed one fiver offthat plate--and then we knew enough to quit. With that crack alongthe corner, you couldn't pass 'em on a blind man! And Gregor saying hethought we could patch the plate up enough to get by with gives me apain--he's got jingles in his dome factory! Run them fivers eh--say, areyou cracked, too?"
"Aw, forget it!" observed Malone caustically. "Who's running this gang?"Then, with a malicious grin: "I got a customer for those fivers--fifteenthousand dollars for all we can turn out to-night. See?"
The others stared at him for a moment, incredulity and greed mingling ina curious half-hesitant, half-expectant look on their faces.
Then Whitie Burns spoke, circling his lips with the tip of his tongue:
"D'ye mean it, Cap--honest? What's the lay? How'd you work it?"
Malone, unbending with the sensation he had created, grinned again.
"Easy enough," he said offhandedly. "It was like falling off a log.Gregor said, didn't he, that the only way he had been able to gethis claws on that plate was on account of young Matthews going awaysick--eh? Well, the old Matthews woman, his mother, has got money--aboutfifteen thousand.
I guess she ain't got any more than that, or I'd haveraised the ante. Aw, it was easy. She threw it at me. I framed one up onthem, that's all. I'm Kline, of the secret service--see? I don't supposethey'd ever seen him, though they'd know his name fast enough, but Imade up something like him. I showed them where I had a case againstSammy for pinching the plate that was strong enough to put a hundredinnocent men behind the bars. Of course, he knew well enough he wasinnocent, but he could see the twenty years I showed him with both eyes.Say, he mussed all over the place, and went and fainted like a girl. Andthen the old woman came across with an offer of fifteen thousand for theplate, and corrupted me." Malone's cunning, vicious face, now thatthe softening effects of the gray hair and mustache were gone, seemedaccentuated diabolically by the grin broadening into a laugh, as heguffawed.
Marty Dean's hand swung with a bang to Malone's shoulder.
"Say, Cap--say, you're all right!" he exclaimed excitedly. "You'rethe boy! But what's the good of running anything off the plate beforeturning it over to 'em--the stuff's no good to us."
"You got a wooden nut, with sawdust for brains," said Malonesarcastically. "If he'd thought the gang of counterfeiters that wassupposed to have bought the plate from him had run off only one fiverand then stopped because they say it wouldn't get by, and weren't goingto run any more, and just destroy the plate like it was supposed to havebeen destroyed to begin with, and it all end up with no one the wiser,where d'ye think we'd have banked that fifteen thousand! I told him Ihad the whole run confiscated, and that the queer went with the plate,so we'll just make that little run to-night--that's why I sent wordaround to you this morning."
"By the jumping!" ejaculated Whitie Burns, heavy with admiration. "Yougot a head on you, Cap!"
"It's a good thing for some of you that I have," returned Malonecomplacently. "But don't stand jawing all night. Go on, now--get busy!"
There was no surprise in Jimmie Dale's face--he had chosen his positionbehind a pile of cases that he had been extremely careful, as a manis careful when his life hangs in the balance, to assure himself wereempty. None of the four came near or touched the pile behind which hestood; but, here and there about the room, they pulled this one and thatone out from various stacks. In scarcely more than a moment, the roomwas completely transformed. It was no longer a storeroom for surplusstock, for the storage of bulky and empty packing cases! From the casesthe men had picked out, like a touch of magic, appeared a veritableprinting plant, an elaborate engraver's outfit--a highly efficientfoot-power press, rapidly being assembled by Whitie Burns; an electricdryer, inks, a pile of white, silk-threaded bank-note paper, a cutter,and a score of other appurtenances.
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale very gently to himself. "Yes, quite so--but theplate? Ah!" Malone was taking it out from the middle of a bundle of oldnewspapers, loosely tied together, that he had lifted from one of thecases.
Jimmie Dale's eyes fastened on it--and from that instant never left it.A minute passed, two, three of them--the four men were silently busyabout the room--Malone was carefully cleaning the plate.
"They will raid to-night. Look out for Kline, he is the sharpest man inthe United State secret service"--the warning in her letter was runningthrough Jimmie Dale's mind. Kline--the real Kline--was going to raidthe place to-night. When? At what time? It must be nearly eleven o'clockalready, and--
It came sudden, quick as the crack of doom--a terrific crash against thebolted door--but the door, undoubtedly to the surprise of those without,held fast, thanks to the bolt. The four men, white-faced, seemed for aninstant turned to statues. Came another crash against the door--and asharp, imperative order to those within to open it and surrender.
"We're pinched! Beat it!" whispered Whitie Burns wildly--and dashed forthe trapdoor.
Like a rat for its hole, Marty Dean followed. Malone, farther away,dropped the plate on the floor, and rushed, with Moulton beside him,after the others--but he never reached the trapdoor.
Over the crashing blows, raining now in quick succession on the door ofthe room, over a startled commotion as lodgers, roomers, and tenants onthe floor above awoke into frightened activity with shouts and cries,came the louder crash of a pile of packing boxes hurled to the floor.And over them, vaulting those scattered in his way, Jimmie Dale sprangat Malone. The man reeled back, with a cry. Moulton dashed throughthe trapdoor and disappeared. The short, ugly barrel of Jimmie Dale'sautomatic was between Malone's eyes.
"You make a move," said Jimmie Dale, in a low sibilant way, "andI'll drop you where you stand! Put your hands behind your back--palmstogether!"
Malone, dazed, cowed, obeyed. A panel of the door split and rent downits length--the hinges were sagging. Jimmie Dale worked like lightning.The cord with the slip noose from his pocket went around Malone'swrists, jerked tight, and knotted; the placard, his lips grim, with nosign of humour, Jimmie Dale dangled around the man's neck.
"An introduction for you to Mr. Kline out there--that you seem so fondof!" gritted Jimmie Dale. Then, working as he talked: "I've got no timeto tell you what I think of you, you pitiful hound"--he snatched up theplate from the floor and put it in his pocket--"Twenty years, I thinkyou said, didn't you?"--his hand shot into Malone's pocket-book, andextracted the five-dollar note--"If you can open this with your toesmaybe you can get a way"--he wrenched the trapdoor over and slammed itshut--"good-night, Malone"--and he leaped for the window.
The door tottered inward from the top, ripping, tearing, smashinghinges, panels, and jamb. Jimmie Dale got a blurred vision of brassbuttons, blue coats, and helmets, and, in the forefront, of a stocky,gray-mustached, gray-haired man in plain clothes.
Jimmie Dale threw up the window, swung out, as with a rush the officersburst through into the room and a revolver bullet hummed viciously pasthis ear, and dropped to the ground--into encircling arms!
"Ah, no, you don't, my bucko!" snapped a hoarse voice in his ear. "Keepquiet now, or I'll crack your bean--understand!"
But the officer, too heavy to be muscular, was no match for JimmieDale, who, even as he had dropped from the sill, had caught sight ofthe lurking form below; and now, with a quick, sudden, lithe movement hewriggled loose, his fist from a short-arm jab smashed upon the point ofthe other's jaw, sending the man staggering backward--and Jimmie Daleran.
A crowd was already collecting at the mouth of the alleyway, mostlyoccupants of the house itself, and into these, scattering them in alldirections, eluding dexterously another officer who made a grab for him,Jimmie Dale charged at top speed, burst through, and headed down thestreet, running like a deer.
Yells went up, a revolver spat venomously behind him, came the shrillCHEEP-CHEEP! of the police whistle, and heavy boots pounding thepavement in pursuit.
Down the block Jimmie Dale raced. The yells augmented in his rear.Another shot--and this time he heard the bullet buzz. And then heswerved--into the next alleyway--that flanked the Sanctuary.
He had perhaps a ten yards' lead, just a little more than the distancefrom the street to the side door of the Sanctuary that opened onthe alleyway. And, as he ran now, his fingers tore at his clothing,loosening his tie, unbuttoning coat, vest, collar, shirt, andundershirt. He leaped at the door, swung it open, flung himselfinside--and then sacrificing speed to silence, went up the stairs like acat, cramming his mask now into his pocket.
His room was on the first landing. In an instant he had unlocked thedoor, entered, and locked it again behind him. From outside, an excitedstreet urchin's voice shrilled up to him:
"He went in that door! I seen him!"
The police whistle chirped again; and then an authoritative voice:
"Get around and watch the saloon back of this, Heeney--there's a way outthrough there from this joint."
Jimmie Dale, divested of every stitch of clothing that he had worn,pulled a disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, pulled ona dirty and patched pair of trousers, and slipped into a threadbare andfilthy coat. Jimmie Dale was working against seconds. They were at thelower d
oor now. He lifted the oilcloth in the corner of the room,lifted up the loose piece of the flooring, shoved his discarded garmentsinside, and from a little box that was there smeared the hollow ofhis hand with some black substance, possessed himself of two littlearticles, replaced the flooring, replaced the oilcloth, and, in barefeet, stole across the room to the door. Against the door, without asound, Jimmie Dale placed a chair, and on the chair seat he laid the twolittle articles he had been carrying in his hand. It was intensely blackin the room, but Jimmie Dale needed no light here. From under the bed hepulled out a pair of woolen socks and a pair of congress boots, both asdisreputable as the rest of his attire, put them on--and very quietly,softly, cautiously, stretched himself out on the bed.
The officers were at the top of the stairs. A voice barked out:
"Stand guard on this landing, Peters. Higgins, you take the one above.We'll start from the top of the house and work down. Allow no one topass you."
"Yes, sir! Very good, Mr. Kline," was the response.
Kline!--the sharpest man in the United States secret service, she hadsaid. Jimmie Dale's lips set.
"I'm glad I had no shave this morning," said Jimmie Dale grimly tohimself.
His fingers were working with the black substance in the hollow of hishand--and the long, slim, tapering fingers, the shapely, well-cared-forhands grew unkempt and grimy, black beneath the finger nails--and alittle, too, played its part on the day's growth of beard, a littlearound the throat and at the nape of the neck, a little across theforehead to meet the locks of straggling and disordered hair. JimmieDale wiped the residue from the hollow of his hand on the knee of histrousers--and lay still.
An officer paced outside. Upstairs doors opened and closed. Gruff, harshtones in commands echoed through the house. The search party descendedto the second floor--and again the same sounds were repeated. And then,thumping down the creaking stairs, they stopped before Jimmie Dale'sroom. Some one tried the door, and, finding it locked, rattled itviolently.
"Open the door!" It was Kline's voice.
Jimmie Dale's eyes were closed, and he was breathing regularly, thoughjust a little slower than in natural respiration.
"Break it down!" ordered Kline tersely.
There was a rush at it--and it gave. It surged inward, knocked againstthe chair, upset the latter, something tinkled to the floor--and fourofficers, with Kline at their head, jumped into the room.
Jimmie Dale never moved. A flashlight played around the room and focusedupon him--and then he was shaken roughly--only to fall inertly back onthe bed again.
"I guess this is all right, Mr. Kline," said one of the officers. "It'sLarry the Bat, and he's doped to the eyes. There's the stuff on thefloor we knocked off the chair."
"Light the gas!" directed Kline curtly; and, being obeyed, stooped tothe floor and picked up a hypodermic syringe and a small bottle. He heldthe bottle to the light, and read the label: LIQUOR MORPHINAE. "Shakehim again!" he commanded.
None too gently, a policeman caught Jimmie Dale by the shoulder andshook him vigorously--again Jimmie Dale, once the other let go his hold,fell back limply on the bed, breathing in that same, slightly slowedway.
"Larry the Bat, eh?" grunted Kline; then, to the officer who hadvolunteered the information: "Who's Larry the Bat? What is he? And howlong have you known him?"
"I don't know who he is any more than what you can see there foryourself," replied the officer. "He's a dope fiend, and I guess a prettytough case, though we've never had him up for anything. He's lived hereever since I've been on the beat, and that's three years or--"
"All right!" interrupted Kline crisply. "He's no good to us! You saythere's an exit from this house into that saloon at the back?"
"Yes, sir but the fellow, whoever he is, couldn't get away from there.Heeney's been over on guard from the start."
"Then he's still inside there," said Kline, clipping off his words."We'll search the saloon. Nice night's work this is! One out of thewhole gang--and that one with the compliments of the Gray Seal!"
The men went out and began to descend the stairs.
"One," said Jimmie Dale to himself, still motionless, still breathing inthat slow way so characteristic of the drug. "Two. Three. Four."
The minutes went by--a quarter of an hour--a half hour. Still JimmieDale lay there--still motionless--still breathing with slow regularity.His muscles began to cramp, to give him exquisite torture. Aroundhim all was silence--only distant sounds from the street reachedhim, muffled, and at intervals. Another quarter of an hour passed--aneternity of torment. It seemed to Jimmie Dale, for all his will power,that he could not hold himself in check, that he must move, scream outeven in the torture that was passing all endurance. It was silent now,utterly silent--and then out of the silence, just outside his door, afootstep creaked--and a man walked to the stairs and went down.
"Five," said Jimmie Dale to himself. "The sharpest man in the UnitedStates secret service."
And then for the first time Jimmie Dale moved--to wipe away the beads ofsweat that had sprung out upon his forehead.