CHAPTER VIII
THE MAN HIGHER UP
The Tocsin! By neither act, sign, nor word had she evidenced theslightest interest in that ring--and yet she must know, she certainlymust know that it was now in his possession. Jimmie Dale wasdisappointed. Somehow, he had counted more than he had cared to admit ondevelopments from that ring.
He pulled a little viciously at his cigarette, as he stared out of theSt. James Club window. That was how long ago? Ten days? Yes; this wouldbe the eleventh. Eleven days now and no word from her--eleven days sincethat night at old Isaac's, since she had last called him, the Gray Seal,to arms. It was a long while--so long a while even that what had cometo be his prerogative in the newspapers, the front page with three-inchtype recounting some new exploit of that mysterious criminal the GraySeal, was being usurped. The papers were howling now about what they,for the lack of a better term, were pleased to call a wave of crime thathad inundated New York, and of which, for once, the Gray Seal was notthe storm centre, but rather, for the moment, forgotten.
He drew back from the window, and, settling himself again in the bigleather lounging chair, resumed the perusal of the evening paper. Hiseye fell on what was common to every edition now, a crime editorial--andthe paper crackled suddenly under the long, slim, tapering fingers,so carefully nurtured, whose sensitive tips a hundred times had mademockery of the human ingenuity squandered on the intricate mechanismof safes and vaults. No; he was wrong--the Gray Seal had not beenforgotten.
"We should not be surprised," wrote the editor virulently, "to discoverat the bottom of these abominable atrocities that the guiding spirit,in fact, was the Gray Seal--they are quite worthy even of his diabolicaldisregard for the laws of God and man."
Jimmie Dale's lips straightened ominously, and an angry glint crept intohis dark, steady eyes. There was nothing then, nothing too vile that,in the public's eyes, could not logically be associated with the GraySeal--even this! A series of the most cold-blooded, callous murdersand robberies, the work, on the face of it, of a well-organized bandof thugs, brutal, insensate, little better than fiends, though cleverenough so far to have evaded capture, clever enough, indeed, to havekept the police still staggering and gasping after a clew for onemurder--while another was in the very act of being committed! The GraySeal! What exquisite irony! And yet, after all, the papers were notwholly to blame for what they said; he had invited much of it. Seemingcrimes of the Gray Seal had apparently been genuine beyond any questionof doubt, as he had intended them to appear, as in the very essence oftheir purpose they had to be.
Yes; he had invited much--he and she together--the Tocsin and himself.He, Jimmie Dale, millionaire, clubman, whose name for generations inNew York had been the family pride, was "wanted" as the Gray Seal for somany "crimes" that he had lost track of them himself--but from any oneof which, let the identity of the Gray Seal be once solved, there wasand could be no escape! What exquisite irony--yet full, too, of the mostdeadly consequences!
Once more Jimmie Dale's eyes sought the paper, and this time scanned theheadlines of the first page:
BRUTAL MURDER OF MILL PAYMASTER.
THE CRIME WAVE STILL AT ITS HEIGHT.
HERMAN ROESSLE FOUND DEAD NEAR HIS CAR.
ASSASSINS ESCAPE WITH $20,000.
Jimmie Dale read on--and as he read there came again that angry set tohis lips. The details were not pleasant. Herman Roessle, the paymasterof the Martindale-Kensington Mills, whose plant was on the Hudson, hadgone that morning in his runabout to the nearest town, three miles away,for the monthly pay roll; had secured the money from the bank, a sum oftwenty-odd thousand dollars; and had started back with it for themill. At first, it being broad daylight and a well-frequented road, hisnonappearance caused no apprehension; but as early afternoon came andthere was still no sign of Roessle the mill management took alarm.Discovering that he had left the bank for the return journey at a fewminutes before eleven, and that nothing had been seen of him at hishome, the police were notified. Followed then several hours of fruitlesssearch, until finally, with the whole countryside aroused and theefforts of the police augumented by private search parties, the car wasfound in a thicket at the edge of a crossroad some four miles back fromthe river, and, a little way from the car, the body of Roessle, dead,the man's head crushed in where it had been fiendishly battered by someblunt, heavy object. There was no clew--no one could be found who hadseen the car on the crossroad--the murderer, or murderers, and thetwenty-odd thousand dollars in cash had disappeared leaving no tracebehind.
There were several columns of this, which Jimmie Dale skimmed throughquickly; but at the end he stared for a long time at the last paragraph.Somehow, strange, to relate, the paper had neglected to turn its "sob"artist loose, and the few words, added almost as though they werean afterthought, for once rang true and full of pathos in their verysimplicity--at the Roessle home, where Mrs. Roessle was prostrated,two little tots of five and seven, too young to understand, had gravelyreceived the reporter and told him that some bad man had hurt theirdaddy.
"Mr. Dale, sir!"
Jimmie Dale lowered his paper. A club attendant was standing before him,respectfully extending a silver card tray. From the man, Jimmie Dale'seyes fixed on a white envelope on the tray. One glance was enough--itwas HERS, that letter. The Tocsin again! His brain seemed suddenly to beafire, and he could feel his pulse quicken, the blood begin to poundin fierce throbs at his heart. Life and death lay in that white,innocent-looking, unaddressed envelope, danger, peril--it was alwayslife and death, for those were the stakes for which the Tocsin played.But, master of many things, Jimmie Dale was most of all master ofhimself. Not a muscle of his face moved. He reached nonchalantly for theletter.
"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale.
The man bowed and started away. Jimmie Dale laid the envelope on thearm of the lounging chair. The man had reached the door when Jimmie Dalestopped him.
"Oh, by the way," said Jimmie Dale languidly, "where did this comefrom?"
"Your chauffeur, sir," replied the other. "Your chauffeur gave it to thehall porter a moment ago, sir."
"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale again.
The door closed.
Jimmie Dale glanced around the room. It was the caution of habit, thatglance; the habit of years in which his life had hung on little things.He was alone in one of the club's private library rooms. He picked upthe envelope, tore it open, took out the folded sheets inside, and beganto read. At the first words he leaned forward, suddenly tense in hischair. He read on, turning the pages hurriedly, incredulity, amazement,and, finally, a strange menace mirroring itself in turn upon his face.
He stood up--the letter in his hand.
"My God!" whispered Jimmie Dale.
It was a call to arms such as the Gray Seal had never receivedbefore--such as the Tocsin had never made before. And if it were trueit--True! He laughed aloud a little gratingly. True! Had the Tocsin,astounding, unbelievable, mystifying as were the means by which sheacquired her knowledge not only of this, but of countless other affairs,ever by so much as the smallest detail been astray. If it were true!
He pulled out his watch. It was half-past nine. Benson, his chauffeur,had sent the letter into the club. Benson had been waiting outsidethere ever since dinner. Jimmie Dale, for the first time since thefirst communication that he had ever received from the Tocsin, did notimmediately destroy her letter now. He slipped it into his pocket--andstepped quickly from the room.
In the cloakroom downstairs he secured his hat and overcoat, and,though it was a warm evening, put on the latter since he was in eveningclothes, then walked leisurely out of the club.
At the curb, Benson, the chauffeur, sprang from his seat, and, touchinghis cap, opened the door of a luxurious limousine.
Jimmie Dale shook his head.
"I shall not keep you waiting any longer, Benson," he said. "You maytake the car home, and put it up. I shall probably be late to-night."
"Very good, sir," replied the chauffeur.
r /> "You sent in a letter a moment or so ago, Benson?" observed Jimmie Dalecasually, opening his cigarette case.
"Yes, sir," said Benson. "I hope I didn't do wrong, sir. He said it wasimportant, and that you were to have it at once."
"He?" Jimmie Dale was lighting his cigarette now.
"A boy, sir," Benson amplified. "I couldn't get anything out of him. Hejust said he'd been told to give it to me, and tell me to see that yougot it at once. I hope, sir, I haven't--"
"Not at all, Benson," said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "It's quite allright. Good-night, Benson."
"Good-night, sir," Benson answered, climbing back to his seat.
There was a queer little smile on Jimmie Dale's lips, as he watched thegreat car swing around in the street and glide noiselessly away--a queerlittle smile that still held there even after he himself had startedbriskly along the avenue in a downtown direction. It was invariably thesame, always the same--the letters came unexpectedly, when leastlooked for, now by this means, now by that, but always in a manner thatprecluded the slightest possibility of tracing them to their source. Wasthere anything, in his intimate surroundings, in his intimate life,that she did not know about him--who knew absolutely nothing about her!Benson, for instance--that the man was absolutely trustworthy--or elseshe would never for an instant have risked the letter in his possession.Was there anything that she did not--yes, one thing--she did not knowhim in the role he was going to play to-night. That at least was onething that surely she did not know about him; the role in which, manytimes, for weeks on end, he had devoted himself body and soul in anattempt to solve the mystery with which she surrounded herself; therole, too, that often enough had been a bulwark of safety to him whenhard pressed by the police; the role out of which he had so carefully,so painstakingly created a now recognised and well-known character ofthe underworld--the role of Larry the Bat.
Jimmie Dale turned from Fifth Avenue into Broadway, continued on downBroadway, across to the Bowery, kept along the Bowery for several moreblocks--and finally headed east into the dimly lighted cross street onwhich the Sanctuary was located.
And now Jimmie Dale became cautious in his movements. As he approachedthe black alleyway that flanked the miserable tenement, he glancedsharply behind and about him; and, at the alleyway itself, withoutpause, but with a curious lightning-like side step, no longer JimmieDale now, but the Gray Seal, he disappeared from the street, and waslost in the deep shadows of the building.
In a moment he was at the side door, listening for any sound fromwithin--none had ever seen or met the lodger or the first floor eitherascending or descending, except in the familiar character of Larrythe Bat. He opened the door, closed it behind him, and in the utterblackness went noiselessly up the stairs--stairs so rickety that itseemed a mouse's tread alone would have set them creaking. There seemedan art in the play of Jimmie Dale's every muscle; in the movements,lithe, balanced, quick, absolutely silent. On the first landing hestopped before another door, there was the faint click of a key turningin the lock; and then this door, too, closed behind him. Sounded thefaint click of the key as it turned again, and Jimmie Dale drew a longbreath, stepped across the room to assure himself that the window blindwas down, and lighted the gas jet.
A yellow, murky flame spurted up, pitifully weak, almost as though itwere ashamed of its disreputable surroundings. Dirt, disorder, squalour,the evidence of low living testified eloquently enough to any one,the police, for instance, in times past inquisitive until they werefatuously content with the belief that they knew the occupant for whathe was, that the place was quite in keeping with its tenant, a muteprototype, as it were, of Larry the Bat, the dope fiend.
For a little space, Jimmie Dale, immaculate in his evening clothes,stood in the centre of the miserable room, his dark eyes, keen, alert,critical, sweeping comprehensively over every object about him--theposition of a chair, of a cracked drinking glass on the broken-leggedtable, of an old coat thrown with apparent carelessness on the floor atthe foot of the bed, of a broken bottle that had innocently strewn somesort of white powder close to the threshold, inviting unwary foot tracksacross the floor. And then, taking out the Tocsin's letter, he laid itupon the table, placed what money he had in his pockets beside it, andbegan rapidly to remove his clothes. The Sanctuary had not been invadedsince his last visit there.
He turned back the oilcloth in the far corner of the room, took up thepiece of loose flooring, which, however, strangely enough, fittedso closely as to give no sign of its existence even should itinadvertently, by some curious visitor again be trod upon; and from theaperture beneath lifted out a bundle of clothes and a small box.
Undressed now, he carefully folded the clothes he had taken off, laidthem under the flooring, and began to dress again, his wardrobe suppliedby the bundle he had taken out in exchange--an old pair of shoes, thelaces broken; mismated socks; patched trousers, frayed at the bottoms; asoiled shirt, collarless, open at the neck. Attired to his satisfaction,he placed the box upon the table, propped up a cracked mirror, sat downin front of it, and, with a deft, artist's touch, began to apply stainto his hands, wrists, neck, throat, and face--but the hardness, the grimmenace that now grew into the dominant characteristic of his featureswas not due to the stain alone.
"Dear Philanthropic Crook"--his eyes were on the Tocsin's letter thatlay before him. He read on--for once, even to Jimmie Dale's keen, facilemind, a first reading had failed to convey the full significance of whatshe had written. It was too amazing, almost beyond belief--the series ofcrimes, rampant for the past few weeks, at which the community hadstood aghast, the brutal murder of Roessle but a few hours old, lay barebefore his eyes. It was all there, all of it, the details, the hellishcleverness, the personnel even of the thugs, all, everything--except theproof.
"Get him, Jimmie--the man higher up. Get him, Jimmie--before anotherpays forfeit with his life"--the words seemed to leap out at him fromthe white page in red, dancing lines--"Get him--Jimmie--the man higherup."
Jimmie Dale finished the second reading of the letter, read it againfor the third time, then tore it into tiny fragments. His fingers delvedinto the box again, and the transformation of Jimmie Dale, member of NewYork's most exclusive social set, into a low, vicious-featured denizenof the underworld went on--a little wax applied skilfully behind theears, in the nostrils and under the upper lip.
It was all there--all except the proof. And the proof--he laughed aloudsuddenly, unpleasantly. There seemed something sardonic in it; ay, morethan that, all that was grim in irony. The proof, in Stangeist's ownwriting, sworn to before witnesses in the presence of a notary, thetext of the document, of course, unknown to both witnesses and notary,evidence, absolute and final, that would be admitted in any court, forStangeist was a lawyer, and would see to that, was in Stangeist's ownsafe, for Stangeist's own protection--Stangeist, who was himself thehead and brains of this murder gang--Stangeist, who was the man higherup!
It was amazing, without parallel in the history of crime--and yetingenious, clever, full of the craft and cunning that had built up theshyster lawyer's reputation below the dead line.
Jimmie Dale's lips were curiously thin now. So it was Stangeist! ADoctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde with a vengeance! He knew Stangeist--notpersonally; not by the reputation Stangeist held, low even as that was,among his brother members of the profession; but as the man was knownfor what he really was among the crooks and criminals of the underworld,where, in that strange underground exchange, whispered confidencespassed between those whose common enemy was the law, where Larry the Bathimself was trusted in the innermost circles.
Stangeist was a power in the Bad Lands. There were few among that unholycommunity that Stangeist, at one time or another, in one way or another,had not rescued from the clutches of the law, resorting to any trick orcunning, but with perjury, that he could handle like the master ofit that he was, employed as the most common weapon of defence for hisclients--provided he were paid well enough for it. The man had becomemore than the att
orney for the crime world--he had become part ofit. Cunning, shrewd, crafty, conscienceless, cold-blooded--that wasStangeist.
The form and features of the man pictured themselves in Jimmie Dale'smind--the six-foot muscular frame, that was invariably clothed in attireof the most fashionable cut; the thin lips with their oily, plausiblesmile, the straight black hair that straggled into pin point, littleblack eyes, the dark face with its high cheek bones, which, with thepronounced aquiline nose and the persistent rumour that he was aquarter caste, had led the underworld, prejudiced always in favour of a"monaker," to dub the man the "Indian Chief."
Jimmie Dale laughed again--still unpleasantly. So Stangeist had takenthe plunge at last and branched out into a wider field, had he? Well,there was nothing surprising in that--except that he had not done itbefore! The irony of it lay in the fact that at last he had been TOOclever, overstepped himself in his own cleverness, that was all. It wasAustralian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane that Stangeist had gatheredaround him, the Tocsin had said--and there were none worse in Larry theBat's wide range of acquaintanceship than those three. Stangeist hadmade himself master of Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane--andhe had driven them a little too hard on the division of the spoils--andlaughed at them, and cracked the whip much after the fashion that thetrainer in the cage handles the growling beasts around him.
A dozen of the crimes that had appalled and staggered New York they hadcommitted under his leadership; and then, it seemed, they had quarrelledfuriously, the three pitted against Stangeist, threatening him,demanding a more equitable share of the proceeds. None was better awarethan Stangeist that threats from men of their calibre were likely toresult in a grim aftermath--and Stangeist, yesterday, the Tocsin said,had answered them as no other man than Stangeist would either havethought of or have dared to do. One by one, at separate times, coveringthe other with a revolver, Stangeist had permitted them to reada document that was addressed to the district attorney. It was aconfession, complete in every detail, of every crime the four togetherhad committed, implicating Stangeist as fully and unreservedly as itdid the other three. It required no commentary! If anything happenedto Stangeist, a stab in the dark, for instance, a bullet from some darkalleyway, a blackjack deftly wielded, as only Australian Ike, The Mopeor Clarie Deane knew how to wield it--the document automatically becamea DEATH SENTENCE for Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane!
It was very simple--and, evidently, it had been effective, as witnessthe renewal of their operations in the murder of Roessle that afternoon.Fear and avarice had both probably played their part; fear of the manwho would with such consummate nerve fling his life into the balanceto turn the tables upon them, while he jeered at them; avarice thatprompted them to get what they could out of Stangeist's brains andleadership, and to be satisfied with what they COULD get--since theycould get no more!
Satisfied? Jimmie Dale shook his head. No; that was hardly theword--cowed, perhaps, for the moment, would be better. But afterward,with a document like that in existence, when they would never be safefor an instant--well, beasts in the cages had been known to get thebetter of the man with the whip, and beasts were gentle things comparedwith Australian Ike, The Mope, and Clarie Deane! Some day they wouldreverse the tables on the Indian Chief--if they could. And if theycouldn't it would not be for the lack of trying.
There would be another act in that drama of the House Divided before thecurtain fell! And there would be a sort of grim, poetic justice in it, atemptation almost to let the play work itself out to its own inevitableconclusion, only--Jimmie Dale, the final touches given to his features,stood up, and his hands clenched suddenly, fiercely--it was not just theman higher up alone, there were the other three as well, the wholefour of them, all of them, crimes without number at their door, brutal,fiendish acts, damnable outrages, murder to answer for, with which thepublic now was beginning to connect the name of the Gray Seal! The GraySeal!
Jimmie Dale's hands, whose delicate fingers were artfully grimed andblackened now beneath the nails, clenched still tighter--and then, witha quick shrug of his shoulders, a thinning of the firmly compressedlips, he picked up the coat from where it lay upon the floor, put it on,put the money that was on the table in his pocket, and replaced the boxunder the flooring.
In quick succession, from the same hiding place, an automatic, a blacksilk mask, an electric flashlight, that thin metal box like a cigarettecase, and a half dozen vicious-looking little blued-steel burglar'stools were stowed away in his pockets, the flooring carefully replaced,the oilcloth spread back again; and then, pulling a slouch hat well downover his eyes, he reached up to turn off the gas.
For an instant his hand held there, while his eyes, sweeping around theapartment, took in every single detail about him in that same alert,comprehensive way as when he had entered--then the room was in darkness,and the Gray Seal, as Larry the Bat, a shuffling, unkempt creatureof the underworld, alias Jimmie Dale, the lionised of clubs, thematrimonial target of exclusive drawing-rooms, closed the door of theSanctuary behind him, shuffled down the stairs, shuffled out into thelane, and shuffled along the street toward the Bowery.
A policeman on the corner accosted him familiarly.
"Hello, Larry!" grinned the officer.
"'Ello!" returned Jimmie Dale affably through the side of his mouth."Fine night, ain't it?"--and shuffled on along the street.
And now Jimmie Dale began to hurry--still with that shuffling tread, butcovering the ground nevertheless with amazing celerity. He had lostno time since receiving the Tocsin's letter, it was true, but, for allthat, it was now after ten o'clock. Stangeist's house was "dark" thatevening, she had said, meaning that the occupants, Stangeist as wellas whatever servants there might be, for Stangeist had no family, wereout--the servants in town for a theatre or picture show probably--andStangeist himself as yet not back, presumably from that Roessle affair.The stub of an old cigar, unlighted, shifted with a sudden, savage twistof the lips from one side of Jimmie Dale's mouth to the other. There wasneed for haste. There was no telling when Stangeist might get back--asfor the servants, that did not matter so much; servants in suburbanhomes had a marked affinity for "last trains!"
Jimmie Dale boarded a cross-town car, effected a transfer, and ina quarter of an hour after leaving the Sanctuary was huddled, aninoffensive heap, like a tired-out workingman, in a corner seat of aLong Island train. From here, there was only a short run ahead of him,and, twenty minutes later, descending from the train at Forest Hills, hehad passed through the more thickly settled portion of the little place,and was walking briskly out along the country road.
Stangeist's house lay, approximately, a mile and a half from thestation, quite by itself, and set well back from the road. Jimmie Dalecould have found it with his eyes blindfolded--the Tocsin's directionshad lacked none of their usual explicit minuteness. The road was quitedeserted. Jimmie Dale met no one. Even in the houses that he passed thelights were in nearly every instance already out.
Something, merciless in its rage, swept suddenly over Jimmie Dale, as,unbidden, of its own volition, the last paragraph he had read in thatevening's paper began to repeat itself over and over again in his mind.The two little kiddies--it seemed as though he could see them standingthere--and from Jimmie Dale's lips, not given to profanity, there camea bitter oath. It might possibly be that, even if he were successful inwhat was before him to-night, the authors of the Roessle murder wouldnever be known. That confession of Stangeist's was written prior to whathad happened that afternoon, and there would be no mention, naturally,of Roessle. And, for a moment, that seemed to Jimmie Dale the one thingparamount to all others, the one thing that was vital; then he shookhis head, and laughed out shortly. After all, it did not matter--whetherStangeist and the blood wolves he had gathered around him paid thepenalty specifically for one particular crime or for another could makelittle difference--they would PAY, just as surely, just as certainly,once that paper was in his possession!
Jimmie Dale was counting the
houses as he passed--they were moreinfrequent now, farther apart. Stangeist was no fool--not the fool thathe would appear to be for keeping a document like that, once he had hadthe temerity to execute it, in his own safe; for, in a day or two, theTocsin had hinted at this, after holding it over the heads of AustralianIke, The Mope, and Clarie Deane again to drive the force of it a littledeeper home, he would undoubtedly destroy it--and the SUPPOSITION thatit was still in existence would have equally the same effect on theminds of the other three! Stangeist was certainly alive to the perilthat he ran with such a thing in his possession, only the peril had notappealed to him as imminent either from the three thugs with whom he hadallied himself, or, much less, from any one else, that was all.
Jimmie Dale halted by a low, ornamental stone fence, some three feethigh, and stood there for a moment, glancing about him. This wasStangeist's house--he could just make out the building as it loomed up ashadowy, irregular shape, perhaps two hundred yards back from the fence.The house was quite dark, not a light showed in any window. Jimmie Dalesat down casually on the fence, looked carefully again up and downthe road--then, swinging his legs over, quick now in every action, hedropped to the other side, and stole silently across the grass to therear of the house.
Here he stopped again, reached up to a window that was about on a levelwith his shoulders, and tested its fastenings. The window--it was thewindow of Stangeist's private sanctum, according to the plan inher letter--was securely locked. Jimmie Dale's hands went into hispocket--and the black silk mask was slipped over his face. He listenedintently--then a little steel instrument began to gnaw like a rat.
A minute passed--two of them. Again Jimmie Dale listened. There was nota sound save the night sounds--the light breeze whispering throughthe branches of the trees; the far-off rumble of a train; the whir ofinsects; the hoarse croaking of a frog from some near-by creek or pond.The window sash was raised an inch, another, and gradually to the top.Like a shadow, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up to the sill, and, poisedthere, his hand parted the heavy portieres that hung within. It was toodark to distinguish even a single object in the room. He lowered himselfto the floor, and slipped cautiously between the portieres.
From somewhere in the house, a clock began to strike. Jimmie Dalecounted the strokes. Eleven o'clock. It was getting late--TOO late!Stangeist was likely to be back at any moment. The flashlight, in JimmieDale's hand now, circled the room with its little round white ray,lingering an instant in a queer, inquisitive sort of way here and thereon this object and that--and went out. Jimmie Dale nodded--the flat deskin the centre of the floor, the safe in the corner by the rear wall, theposition of everything in the room, even to the chairs, was photographedon his mind.
He stepped from the portieres to the safe, and the flashlight playedagain--this time reflecting back from the glistening nickelled knobs.Jimmie Dale's lips tightened. It was a small safe, almost ludicrouslysmall; but to such height as the art of safe design had been carried,that design was embodied in the one before him.
"Type K-four-two-eight-Colby," muttered Jimmie Dale. "A nasty littlebeggar--and it's eleven o'clock now! I'd use 'soup' for once, if itweren't that it would put Stangeist wise, and give him a chance to makehis get-away before the district attorney got the nippers on the four ofthem."
The light went out. Jimmie Dale dropped to his knees; and, while hisleft hand passed swiftly, tentatively over dials and handle, he rubbedthe fingers of his right hand rapidly to and fro over the carpet.Wonderful finger tips were those of Jimmie Dale, sensitive to anabnormal degree; and now, tingling with the friction, the nervesthrobbing at the skin surface, they closed in a light, delicate touchupon the knob of the dial--and Jimmie Dale's ear pressed close againstthe face of the safe.
Time passed. The silence grew heavy--seemed to palpitate through theroom. Then a deep breath, half like a sigh, half like a fluttering sobas of a strong man taxed to the uttermost of his endurance, came fromJimmie Dale, and his left hand swept away the sweat beads that hadspurted to his forehead.
"Eight--thirteen--twenty-two," whispered Jimmie Dale.
There was a click, a low metallic thud as the bolts slid back, and thedoor swung open.
And now the flashlight again, searching the mechanism of the innerdoor--then darkness once more.
Five minutes, ten minutes went by. The clock struck again--and thesingle stroke seemed to boom out through the house in a weird, raucous,threatening note, and seemed to linger, throbbing in the air.
The inner door was open--the flashlight's ray was flooding a nestof pigeonholes and little drawers. The pigeonholes were crammed withpapers, as, presumably, too, were the drawers. Jimmie Dale sucked in hisbreath. He had already been there well over half an hour--every minutenow, every second was counting against him, and to search that mass ofpapers before Stangeist returned was--
"Ah!"--it came in a fierce little ejaculation from Jimmie Dale. Fromthe centre pigeonhole, almost the first paper he had touched, he drewa long, sealed envelope and at a single swift glance had read theinscription upon it, written in longhand:
TO THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY, NEW YORK CITY.
IMPORTANT. URGENT.
The words in the corners were underscored three times.
Swiftly, deftly, Jimmie Dale's hands rolled the rounded end of one ofhis collection of the legal instruments under the flap of the envelope,turned the sheets over and drew out the folded document inside. Therewere eight sheets of legal foolscap, neatly fastened together at the topleft-hand corner with green tape. He opened them out, read a few wordshere and there, and turned the pages hurriedly over to scrutinisethe last one--and nodded grimly. Three witnesses had testified to thesignature of Stangeist, and a notary's seal, accompanied by the usuallegal formula, was duly affixed.
Jimmie Dale slipped the document into his pocket, and, with the envelopein his hand, moved to the desk. He opened first one drawer and thenanother, and finally discovering a pile of blank foolscap, took out foursheets, folded them, and placed them in the envelope, sealing theflap of the latter again. That it did not seal very well now brought aquizzical twitch to Jimmie Dale's lips. Sealed or unsealed, perhaps, itmade little difference; but, for all that, he was not through with ityet. Apart from bringing the four to justice, there was, after all, achance to vindicate the Gray Seal in this matter at least, and repudiatethe newspaper theory which the public, to whom the Gray Seal was alreadya monster of iniquity, would seize upon with avidity.
There was no further need of light now. Jimmie Dale replaced theflashlight in his pocket, took out the thin, metal case, opened it, andwith the tiny pair of tweezers that likewise nestled there, lifted outone of the gray, diamond-shaped paper seals. There was no question butthat, once under arrest, Stangeist's effects would be immediatelyand thoroughly searched by the authorities! Jimmie Dale's smile fromquizzical became ironic. It would afford the police another little,bewildering reminder of the Gray Seal, and give Carruthers, good oldCarruthers of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS, so innocently ignorant that theGray Seal was his old college pal, yet the one editor of them all whowas not forever barking and yelping at the Gray Seal's heels, a chanceto vindicate himself a little, too! Jimmie Dale moistened the adhesiveside of the gray seal, and, still mindful of tell-tale finger prints,laid it with the tweezers on the flap of the envelope, and pressed itfirmly into place with his elbow.
And then, suddenly, every faculty instantly on the alert, he snatched upthe envelope from the desk, and listened. Was it imagination, a trickof nerves, or--no, there it was again!--a footfall on the gravel walk atthe front of the house. The sound became louder, clearer--two footfallsinstead of one. It was Stangeist, and somebody was with him.
In an instant Jimmie Dale was across the room and kneeling again beforethe safe. His fingers were flying now. The envelope shot back into thepigeonhole from which he had taken it--the inner door of the safe closedsilently and swiftly.
A dry chuckle came from Jimmie Dale's lips. It was just like fiction,just precisely time enough to have
accomplished what he had come forbefore he was interrupted, not a second more or less, the villain foiledat the psychological moment! The key was rattling in the front doornow--they were in the hall--he could hear Stangeist's voice--there camea dull glow from the hallway, following the click of an electric-lightswitch. The outer door of the safe swung shut, the bolts slid intoplace, the dial whirled under Jimmie Dale's fingers. It was only astep to the portieres, the open window--and escape. He straightened up,stepped back, the portieres closed behind him--and the chuckle died onJimmie Dale's lips.
He was trapped--caught without so much as a corner in which to turn!Stangeist was even then coming into the room--and OUTSIDE, darklyoutlined, two forms stood just beneath the window. Instinctively, quickas a flash, Jimmie Dale crouched below the sill. Who were they? What didit mean? Questions swept in swift sequence through his brain. Had theyseen him? It would be very dark against the background of the portieres,but yet if they were watching--he drew a breath of relief. He had notbeen seen. Their voices reached him in low, guarded whispers.
"Say, youse, Ike, pipe it! Dere's a window open in the snitch's room.Come on, we'll get in dere. It'll make the hair stand up on the back ofhis neck fer a starter."
"Aw, ferget it!" replied another voice. "Can the tee-ayter stunt!Clarie leaves the front door unfastened, don't he? An' dey'll be in derein a minute now. Wotcher want ter do? Crab the game? He might hear usan' fix Clarie before we had a chanst, the skinny old fox! An' dere'sthe light now--see! Beat it on yer toes fer the front of the house!"
The room was flooded with light. Through the portieres, that Jimmie Daleparted by the barest fraction of an inch, he could see Stangeist andanother man, a thick-set, ugly-faced-looking customer--Clarie Deane,according to that brief, whispered colloquy that he had heard outside.He looked again through the window. The two dark forms had disappearednow, but they had disappeared just a few seconds too late--with the twoother men now in the room, and one of them so close that Jimmie Dalecould almost have reached out and touched him, it was impossible toget through the window without being detected, when the slightest soundwould attract instant attention and equally instant suspicion. It was achance to be taken only as a last resort.
Jimmie Dale's face grew hard, as his fingers closed around his automaticand drew the weapon from his pocket. It was all plain enough. That lastact in the drama which he had speculatively anticipated was being stagedwith little loss of time--and in a grim sort of way the thought flashedacross his mind that, perilous as his own position was, Stangeist atthat moment was in even greater peril than himself. Australian Ike, TheMope, and Clarie Deane, given the chance, and they seemed to have madethat chance now, were not likely to deal in half measures--Clarie Deanehad dropped into a chair beside the desk; and The Mope and AustralianIke were creeping around to the front door!
The parting in the portieres widened a little more, a very little more,slowly, imperceptibly, until Jimmie Dale, by the simple expedient ofmoving his head, could obtain an unobstructed view of the entire room.
Stangeist tossed a bag he had been carrying on the desk, pulled up achair opposite to Clarie Deane, and sat down. Both men were side face toJimmie Dale.
"You tell the boys," said Stangeist abruptly, "to fade away after thisfor a while. Things are getting too hot. And you tell The Mope I dockhim five hundred for that extra crunch on Roessle's skull. That sortof thing isn't necessary. That's the kind of stunt that gets the publicsore--the man was dead enough as it was. See?"
"Sure!" Clarie Deane's ejaculation was a grunt.
Stangeist opened the bag, and dumped the contents on the desk--pileafter pile of banknotes, the pay roll of the Martindale-KensingtonMills.
"Some haul!" observed Clarie Deane, with a hoarse chuckle. "The paperssaid over twenty thousand."
"You can't always believe what the papers say," returned Stangeistcurtly; and, taking a scribbling pad from the desk, began to check upthe packages.
Clarie Deane's cigar had gone out. He rolled the short stub in hismouth, and leaned forward.
The bills were evidently just as they had been delivered to the murderedpaymaster at the bank, done up with little narrow paper bands inpackages of one hundred notes each, save for a small bundle of loosebills which latter, with the rolls of silver, Stangeist swept to oneside of the desk.
Package by package, Stangeist went on jotting the amounts down on thepad.
"Nix!" growled Clarie Deane suddenly. "Cut that out! Them's fivers inthat wad. Make that five hundred instead of one--I'm onter yer!"
"Mistake," said Stangeist suavely, changing the figures with his pencil."You're pretty wide awake for this time of night, aren't you, Clarie?"
"Oh, I dunno!" responded Clarie Deane gruffly. "Not so very!"
Stangeist, finished with the packages, picked up the loose bills, and,with a short laugh, tossed them into the bag and followed them with therolls of silver. He pushed the bag toward Clarie Deane.
"That's a little extra for you," he said. "The trouble with you fellowsis that you don't know when you're well off--but the sooner you find itout the better, unless you want another lesson like yesterday." He madethe addition on the pad. "Fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars," heannounced softly. "That's seven thousand, nine hundred for the three ofyou to divide, less five hundred from The Mope."
Clarie Deane's eyes narrowed. His hands were on his knees, hidden by thedesk.
"There's more'n twenty there," he said sullenly--and drew a match acrossthe under edge of the desk with a long, crackling noise.
Stangeist's face lost its suavity, a snarl curled his lips; but, aboutto reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead, his head turnedsharply toward the door.
"What's that!" he said hoarsely. "It's not the servants, they wouldn'tdare to--"
Stangeist's words ended in a gulp. He was staring into the muzzle of aheavy-calibered revolver that Clarie Deane had jerked up from under thedesk.
"You sit down, or I'll blow your block off!" said Clarie Deane, with asudden leer.
It happened then almost before Jimmie Dale could grasp the details;before even Clarie Deane himself could interfere. The door burst open,two men rushed in--and one, with a bound, flung himself at Stangeist.The man's hand, grasping a clubbed revolver, rose in the air, descendedon Stangeist's head--and Stangeist went down in a limp heap, crashedinto the chair, and slid from the chair with a thud to the floor.
There was an oath from Clarie Deane. He jumped from his seat, and with aviolent shove sent the man reeling half across the room.
"Blast you, Mope!" he snarled. "You're too blamed fly! D'ye wanter queerthe whole biz?"
"Aw, wot's the matter wid youse!" The Mope, purple-faced with rage,little black eyes glittering, mouth working under a flattened nose thatsome previous encounter had broken and bent over the side of his face,advanced belligerently.
Australian Ike, who had entered the room with him, pulled him back.
"Ferget it!" he flung out. "Clarie's dealin' the deck. Ferget it!"
The Mope glared from one to the other; then shook his fist at Stangeiston the floor.
"Youse two make me sick!" he sneered. "Wot's the use of waitin' allnight? We was to bump him off, anyway, wasn't we? Dat's wot youse saidyerselves, 'cause wot was ter stop him writin' out another paper if wedidn't fix him fer keeps?"
"That's all right," rejoined Clarie Deane; "but that's the second act,you bonehead, see! We ain't got the paper yet, have we? Say, take a lookat that safe! It's easier ter scare him inter openin' it than ter crackit, ain't it?"
Jimmie Dale, from his crouched position, began to rise to his feetslowly, making but the slightest movement at a time, cautious of theleast sound. His lips were like a thin line, his fingers tightly pressedover the automatic in his hand. There was not room for him between theportieres and the window; and, do what he could, the hangings bulged alittle. Let one of the three notice that, or inadvertently brush againstthe portieres, and his life would not be worth an instant's purchase.
/> They were lifting Stangeist up now, propping him up in the chair.Stangeist moaned, opened his eyes, stared in a dazed way at the threefaces that leered into his, then dawning intelligence came, and hisface, that had been white before, took on a pasty, grayish pallor.
"You--the three of you!" he mumbled. "What's this mean?"
And then Clarie Deane laughed in a low, brutal way.
"Wot d'ye think it means? We want that paper, an' we want it damnquick--see! D'ye think we was goin' ter stand fer havin' a trip ter SingSing an' the wire chair danglin' over our heads!"
Stangeist closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something of theold-time craftiness was in his face.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he inquired, almost sharply."You know what will happen to you, if anything happens to me."
"Don't youse kid yerself!" retorted Clarie Deane. "D'ye think we'refools? This ain't like it was yesterday--see! We GETS the paper thistime--so there won't nothin' happen to us. You come across with itblasted quick now, or The Mope'll give you another on the bean that'llput you to sleep fer keeps!"
The blood was running down Stangeist's face. He wiped it away from hiseyes.
"It's not here," he said innocently. "It's in my box in thesafety-deposit vaults."
"Aw," blurted out Australian Ike, pushing suddenly forward, "youse can'twork dat crawl on--"
"Cut it out, Ike!" snapped Clarie Dane. "I'm runnin' this! So it's inthe vaults, eh?" He shoved his face toward Stangeist's.
"Yes," said Stangeist easily. "You see--I was looking for something likethis."
Clarie Deane's fist clenched.
"You lie!" he choked. "The Mope, here, was the last of us you showedthe paper to yesterday afternoon, an' the vaults was closed then--an' youain't been there to-day, 'cause you've been watched. That's why we fixedit fer to-night after the divvy that you've just tried ter do us onagain, 'cause we knew you had it here."
"I tell you, it's not here," said Stangeist evenly.
"You lie!" said Clarie Deane again. "It's in that safe. The Mope heardyou tell the girl in yer office that if anything happened to you she waster wise up the district attorney that there was a paper in your safeat home fer him that was important. Now then, you beat it over ter thatsafe, an' open it up--we'll give you a minute ter do it in."
"The paper's not there, I tell you," said Stangeist once more.
"That's all right," submitted Clarle Deane grimly. "There's a quarter ofthat minute gone."
"I won't!" Stangeist flashed out violently.
"That's all right," repeated Clarie Deane. "There's half of that minutegone."
Jimmie Dale's eyes, in a fascinated sort of way, were on Stangeist. Theman's face was twitching now, moisture began to ooze from his forehead,as the callous brutality of the scowling faces seemed to get him--andthen he lurched suddenly forward in his chair.
"My God!" he cried out, a ring of terror in his voice "What do you meanto do? You'll pay for it! They'll get you! The servants will be back ina minute."
"Two skirts!" jeered Clarie Deane. "We ain't goin' ter run away fromthem. If they comes before we goes, we'll fix 'em. That minute's up!"
Stangeist licked his lips with his tongue.
"Suppose--suppose I refuse?" he said hoarsely.
"You can suit yerself," said Clarie Deane, with a vicious grin. "We knowthe paper's there, an' we gets it before we leaves here--see? You cantake yer choice. Either you goes over ter the safe an' opens it yerself,or else"--he paused and produced a small bottle from his pocket--"thisis nitro-glycerin', an' we opens it fer you with this. Only if we doesthe job we does it proper. We ties you up and sets you against the doorof the safe before we touches off the 'soup,' an' mabbe if yer a goodguesser you can guess the rest."
There was a short, raucous guffaw from The Mope.
Stangeist turned a drawn face toward the man, stared at him, andstared in a miserable way at the other two in turn. He licked his lipsagain--none was in a better position than himself to know that therewould be neither scruples nor hesitancy to interfere with carrying outthe threat.
"Suppose," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "suppose I open thesafe--what then--afterward?"
"We ain't got the safe open yet," countered Clarie Deaneuncompromisingly. "An' we ain't got no more time ter fool over it,either. You get a move on before I counts five, or The Mope an' Ike tiesyou up! One--"
Stangeist staggered to his feet, wiped the blood out of his eyes for thesecond time, and, with lips working, went unsteadily across the room tothe safe.
He knelt before it, and began to manipulate the dial; while the otherscrowded around behind him. The Mope was fingering his revolver againclub fashion. Australian Ike's elbow just grazed the portieres, andJimmie Dale flattened himself against the window, holding his breath--asmile on his lips that was mirthless, deadly, cold. The end was not faroff now; and then--WHAT?
Stangeist had the outer door of the safe open now--and now the innerdoor swung back. He reached in his hand to the pigeonhole, drew out theenvelope--and with a sudden, wild cry, reeled to his feet.
"My God!" he screamed out. "What's--what's this!"
Clarie Deane snatched the envelope from him.
"THE GRAY SEAL!"--the words came with a jerk from his lips. He rippedthe envelope open frantically--and like a man stunned gazed at the fourblank sheets, while the colour left his face. "IT'S GONE!" he cried outhoarsely.
"Gone!" There was a burst of oaths from Australian Ike. "Gone! Den we'renipped--de lot of us!"
The Mope's face was like a maniac's as he whirled on Stangeist.
"Sure!" he croaked. "But youse gets yers first, youse--"
With a cry, Stangeist, to elude the blow, ducked blindly backward--intothe portieres--and with a rip and tear the hangings were wrenched apart.
It came instantaneously--a yell of mingled surprise and fury from thethree--the crash and spit of Jimmie Dale's revolver as he fired one shotat the floor to stop their rush--then he flung himself at the window,through it, and dropped sprawling to the ground.
A stream of flame cut the darkness above him, a bullet whistled by hishead--another--and another. He was on his feet, quick as a cat, andrunning close alongside of the wall of the house. He heard a thud behindhim, still another, and yet a third--they were dropping through thewindow after him. Came another shot, an angry hum of the bullet closerthan before--then the pound of racing feet.
Jimmie Dale swung around the corner of the house, running at top speed.Something that was like a hot iron suddenly burned and seared along theside of his head just above the ear. He reeled, staggered, recoveredhimself, and dashed on. It nauseated him, that stinging in his head,and all at once seemed to be draining his strength away. The shouts, theshots, the running feet became like a curious buzzing in his ears. Itseemed strange that they should have hit him, that he should be wounded!If he could only reach the low stone wall by the road, he could at leastmake a fight for his life on the other side!
Red streaks swam before Jimmie Dale's eyes. The wall was such a long wayoff--a yard or two was a very long way more to go--the weaknessseemed to be creeping up now even to numb his brain. No, here was thewall--they hadn't hit him again--he laughed in a demented way--androlled his body over, and fell to the other side.
"JIMMIE!"
The cry seemed to reach some inner consciousness, revive him, send theblood whipping through his veins. That voice! It was her--HERS! TheTocsin! There was an automobile, engine racing, standing there in theroad. He won to his feet--dark, rushing forms were almost at the wall.He fired--once--twice--fired again--and turned, staggering for the car.
"Jimmie! Jimmie--QUICK!"
Panting, gasping, he half fell into the tonneau. The car leaped forward,yells filled the air--but only one thing was dominant in Jimmie Dale'sreeling brain now. He pulled himself up to his feet, and leaned over theback of the seat, reaching for the slim figure that was bent over thewheel.
"It's you--you at last!" he cried. "Yo
ur face--let me lee your face!"
A bullet split the back panel of the car--little spurting flames weredancing out from the roadway behind.
"Are you mad!" she shouted back at him. "Let me steer--do you want themto hit me!"
"No-o," said Jimmie Dale, in a queer singsong sort of way, and hishead seemed to spin dizzily around. "No--I guess--" He choked. "Thepaper--it's in--my pocket"--and he went down unconscious on the floor ofthe car.
When he recovered his senses he was lying on a couch in a plainlyfurnished room, and a man, a stranger, red, jovial-faced, farmerishlooking, was bending over him.
"Where am I?" he demanded finally, propping himself up on his elbow.
"You're all right," replied the man. "She said you'd come around in alittle while."
"Who said so?" inquired Jimmie Dale.
"She did. The woman who brought you here about five minutes ago. Shesaid she ran you down with her car."
"Oh!" said Jimmie Dale. He felt his head--it was bandaged, and it wasbandaged, he was quite sure, with a piece of torn underskirt. He lookedat the man again. "You haven't told me yet where I am."
"Long Island," the other answered. "My name's Hanson. I keep a bit of atruck garden here."
"Oh," said Jimmie Dale again.
The man crossed the room, picked up an envelope from the table, and cameback to Jimmie Dale.
"She said to give you this as soon as you got your senses, and asked usto put you up for a while, as long as you wanted to stay, and paidus for it, too. She's all right, she is. You don't want to hold theaccident up against her, she was mighty sorry about it. And now I'll goand see if the old lady's got your room ready while you're readin' yourletter."
The man left the room.
Jimmie Dale sat up on the couch, and tore the envelope open. The note,scrawled in pencil, began abruptly:
"You were quite a problem. I couldn't take you HOME--could I? I couldn'ttake you to what you call the Sanctuary could I? I couldn't take you toa hospital, nor call in a doctor--the stain you use wouldn't stand it.But, thank God! I know it's only a flesh wound, and you are all rightwhere you are for the day or two that you must keep quiet and take careof yourself. By the time you read this the paper will be on the way tothe proper hands, and by morning the four where they should be. Therewere a few articles in your clothes I thought it better to take chargeof in case--well, in case of ACCIDENT."
Jimmie Dale tore the note up, and smiled wryly at the door. He feltin his pockets. Mask, revolver, burglar's tools, and the thin metalinsignia case were gone.
"And I had the sublime optimism," murmured Jimmie Dale, "to spend monthstrying to find her as Larry the Bat!"