CHAPTER IX
TWO CROOKS AND A KNAVE
The bullet wound along the side of his head and just above his ear wouldhave been a very awkward thing indeed, in more ways than one, for JimmieDale, the millionaire, to have explained at his club, in his social set,or even to his servants, and of these latter to Jason the Solicitousin particular; but for Jimmie Dale as Larry the Bat it was a matter oflittle moment. There was none to question Larry the Bat, save in a mostcasual and indifferent way; and a bandage of any description, primarilyand above all one that he could arrange himself, with only himself totake note of the incongruous hues of skin where the stain, the greasepaint, and the make-up was washed off, would excite little attentionin that world where daily affrays were common-place happenings, and awound, for whatever reason, had long since lost the tang of novelty. Whythen should it arouse even a passing interest if Larry the Bat, creditedas the most confirmed of dope fiends, should have fallen down thedark, rickety stairs of the tenement in one of his orgies, and, in theexpressive language of the Bad Lands, cracked his bean!
And so Jimmie Dale had been forced to maintain the role of Larry the Batfor a far longer period than he had anticipated when, ten days before,he had assumed it for the night's work that had so nearly resultedfatally for himself, though it had placed Roessle's murderers behindthe bars. For, the next day, unwilling to court the risk of remainingin that neighbourhood, he had left Hanson's, the farmer's, house onLong Island where the Tocsin had carried him in an unconscious state,telephoned Jason that he had been unexpectedly called out of town fora few days, and returned to the Sanctuary in New York. And here, to hisgrim dismay, he had found the underworld in a state of furious, angryunrest, like a nest of hornets, stirred up, seeking to wreak vengeanceon an unseen assailant.
For years, as the Gray Seal, Jimmie Dale had lived with the slogan ofthe police, "The Gray Seal dead or alive--but the Gray Seal!" soundingin his ears; with the newspapers screaming their diatribes, arousingthe people against him, nagging the authorities into sleepless, frenziedefforts to trap him; with a price upon his head that was large enough tomake a man, not too pretentious, rich for life--but in the underworld,until then, the name of the Gray Seal had been one to conjure with, forthe underworld had sworn by the unknown master criminal, and hadspoken his name with a reverence that was none the less genuine even ifpungently tainted with unholiness. But now it was different. Up and downthrough the Bad Lands, in gambling hells, in vicious resorts, in thehiding places where thugs and crooks burrowed themselves away fromthe daylight, through the heart and the outskirts of the underworldtravelled the fiat, whispered out of mouths crooked to one side--DEATHTO THE GRAY SEAL!
Gangland differences were forgotten in the larger issue of the commonweal. The gang spirit became the spirit of a united whole, and the crimefraternity buzzed and hummed poisonously, spurred on by hatred, thirstfor revenge, fear, and, perhaps most potent of all, a hideous suspicionnow of each other.
The underworld had received a shock at which it stood aghast, and which,with its terrifying possibilities, struck consternation into the soulof every individual of that brotherhood whose bond was crime, who wasalready "wanted" for some offence or other, whether it ranged frommurder in the first degree to some petty piece of sneak thievery.Stangeist, the Indian chief, the lawyer whose cunning brain had stood asa rampart between the underworld and a prison cell, was himself now inthe Tombs with the certainty of the electric chair before him; and withhim, the same fate equally assured, were Australian Ike, The Mope, andClarie Deane! Aristocrats of the Bad Lands, peers of that ingloriousrealm were those four--and the blow had fallen with stunning force,a blow that in itself would have been enough to have stirred theunderworld to its depths. But that was not all--from the cells in theTombs, from the four came the word, and passed from mouth to mouth inthat strange underground exchange until all had heard it, that the GraySeal had "SQUEALED." The Gray Seal who, though unknown, they had countedthe most eminent among themselves, had squealed! Who was the Gray Seal?It he had held the secrets of Stangeist and his band, what else mighthe not know? Who else might not fall next? The Gray Seal had becomea snitch, a menace, a source of danger that stalked among them like aghastly spectre. Who was the Gray Seal? None knew.
"Death to the Gray Seal! Run him to earth!" went the whisper from lipto lip; and with the whisper men stared uncertainly into each other'sfaces, fearful that the one to whom they spoke might even be--the GraySeal!
Jimmie Dale's lips twisted queerly as he looked around him at thesqualid appointments of the Sanctuary. The police were bad enough, thepapers were worse; but this was a still graver peril. With every denizenof the underworld below the dead line suspicious of each other, theirlives, the penitentiary, or a prison sentence the stakes against whicheach one played, the role of Larry the Bat, clever as was the make-upand disguise, was fraught now more than ever before with danger andperil. It seemed as though slowly the net was beginning at last totighten around him.
The murky, yellow flame of the gas jet flickered suddenly, as thoughin acquiescence with the quick, impulsive shrug of Jimmie Dale'sshoulders--and Jimmie Dale, bending to peer into the cracked mirror thatwas propped up on the broken-legged table, knotted his dress tie almostfastidiously. The hair, if just a trifle too long, covered the scar onhis head now, the wound no longer required a bandage, and Larry the Bat,for the time being at least, had disappeared. Across the foot of thebed, neatly folded, lay his dress coat and overcoat, but little creasedfor all that they had lain in that hiding-place under the flooring sincethe night when, hurrying from the club, he had placed them there toassume instead the tatters of Larry the Bat. It was Jimmie Dale in hisown person again who stood there now in Larry the Bat's disreputableden, an incongruous figure enough against the background of hismiserable surroundings, in perfect-fitting shoes and trousers, thebroad expanse of spotless white shirt bosom glistening even in thepoverty-stricken flare from the single, sputtering gas jet.
Jimmie Dale took the watch from his pocket that had not been wound formany days, wound it mechanically, set it by guesswork--it was not farfrom eight o'clock--and replaced it in his pocket. Carefully then, oneat a time, he examined his fingers, long, slim, sensitive, taperingfingers, magical masters of safes and locks and vaults of the mostintricate and modern mechanism--no single trace of grime remained,they were metamorphosed hands from the filthy paws of Larry the Bat. Henodded in satisfaction; and picked up the mirror for a final inspectionof himself, that, this time, did not miss a single line in his face orneck. Again Jimmie Dale nodded. As though he had vanished into thinair, as though he had never existed, not a trace of Larry the Batremained--except the heap of rags upon the floor, the battered slouchhat, the frayed trousers, the patched boots with their broken laces, themismated socks, the grimy flannel shirt, and the old coat that he hadjust discarded.
The mirror was replaced on the table; and, pushing the heap of clothesbefore him with his foot, Jimmie Dale knelt down in the corner of theroom where the oilcloth had been turned up and the loose planking of thefloor removed, and began to pack the articles away in the hole. JimmieDale rolled the trousers of Larry the Bat into a compact little bundle,and stuffed them under the flooring. The gas jet seemed to blink againin a sort of confidential approval, as though the secret lay inviolatebetween itself and Jimmie Dale. Through the closed window, shade tightlydrawn, came, low and muffled, the sound of distant life from the Bowery,a few blocks away. The gas jet, suffering from air somewhere within thepipes, hissed angrily, the yellow flame died to a little blue, forkedspurt--and Jimmie Dale was on his feet, his face suddenly hard and whiteas marble.
SOME ONE WAS KNOCKING AT THE DOOR!
For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale stood motionless. Found asJimmie Dale in the den of Larry the Bat, and the consequences requiredno effort of the imagination to picture them; police or denizen of theunderworld who was knocking there, it was all the same, the method ofdeath would be a little different, that was all--one legalised, theothe
r not. Jimmie Dale, Larry the Bat, the Gray Seal, once uncovered,could expect as much quarter as would be given to a cornered rat. Hiseyes swept the room with a swift, critical glance--evidences of Larrythe Bat, the clothes, were still about, even if he in the person ofJimmie Dale, alone damning enough, were not standing there himself.And he was even weaponless--the Tocsin had taken the revolver fromhis pocket, together with those other telltale articles, the mask, theflashlight, the little blued-steel tools, before she had intrusted himthat night, wounded and unconscious, to Hanson's care.
Jimmie Dale slipped his feet out of his low evening pumps, snatched upthe old coat and hat from the pile, put them on, and, without asound, reached the gas jet and turned it off. A second had gone by--nomore--the knocking still sounded insistently on the door. It was darknow, perfectly black. He started across the room, his tread absolutelysilent as the trained muscles, relaxing, threw the body weight graduallyupon one foot before the next step was taken. It was like a shadow,a little blacker in outline than the surrounding blackness, stealingacross the floor.
Halfway to the door he paused. The knocking had ceased. He listenedintently. It was not repeated. Instead, his ear caught a guarded stepretreating outside in the hall. Jimmie Dale drew a breath of relief.He went on again to the door, still listening. Was it a trap--that stepoutside?
At the door now, tense, alert, he lowered his ear to the keyhole. Therecame the faintest creak from the stairs. Jimmie Dale's brows gathered.It was strange! The knocking had not lasted long. Whoever it was wasgoing away--but it required the utmost caution to descend those stairs,rickety and tumble-down as they were, with no more sound than that!Why such caution? Why not a more determined and prolonged effort at hisdoor--the visitor had been easily satisfied that Larry the Bat was notwithin. TOO easily satisfied! Jimmie Dale turned the key noiselessly inthe lock. He opened the door cautiously--half inch--an inch, there wasno sound of footsteps now. Occasionally a lodger moved about on thefloor above; occasionally from somewhere in the tenement came the murmurof voices as from behind closed door--that was all. All else was silenceand darkness now.
The door, on its well-oiled hinges, swung wide open. Jimmie Dale thrustout his head into the hall--and something fell upon the threshold witha little thud--but for a moment Jimmie Dale did not move. Listening,trying to pierce the darkness, he was as still as the silence aroundhim; then he stooped and groped along the threshold. His hand closedupon what seemed like a small box wrapped in paper. He picked it up,closed and locked the door again, and retreated back across the room. Itwas strange--unpleasantly strange--a box propped stealthily against thedoor so that it would fall to the threshold when the door was opened!And why the stealth? What did it mean? Had the underworld with itsthousand eyes and ears already succeeded in a few days where the policehad failed signally for years--had they sent him this, whatever it was,as some grim token that they had run Larry the Bat to earth? He shookhis head. No; gangland struck more swiftly, with less finesse thanthat--the "cat-and-mouse" act was never one it favoured, for the mousehad been known to get away.
Jimmie Dale lighted the gas again, and turned the package over in hishands. It was, as he had surmised, a small cardboard box; and it waswrapped in plain paper and tied with a string. He untied the string,and still suspicious, as a man is suspicious in the knowledge that he isstalked by peril at every turn, removed the wrapper a little gingerly.It was still without sign or marking upon it, just an ordinary cardboardbox. He lifted off the cover, and, with a short, sudden laugh, stared, alittle out of countenance, at the contents.
On the top lay a white, unaddressed envelope. HERS! Beneath--he emptiedthe box on the table--his black silk mask, his automatic revolver, thekit of fine, small blued-steel burglar's tools, his pocket flashlight,and the thin metal insignia case. The Tocsin! Impulsively Jimmie Daleturned toward the door--and stopped. His shoulders lifted in a shrugthat, meant to be philosophical, was far from philosophical. He couldnot, dared not venture far through the tenement dressed as he was; andeven if he could there were three exits to the Sanctuary, a fact thatnow for the first time was not wholly a source of unmixed satisfactionto him; and besides--she was gone!
Jimmie Dale opened the letter, a grim smile playing on his lips. He hadforgotten for the moment that the illusion he had cherished for yearsin the belief that she did not know Larry the Bat as an alias ofJimmie Dale was no more than--an illusion. Well, it had been a piece ofconsummate egotism on his part, that was all. But, after all, what didit matter? He had had his innings, tried in the role of Larry the Batto solve her identity, devoted weeks on end to the attempt--and failed.Some day, perhaps, his turn would come; some day, perhaps, she would nolonger be able to elude him, unless--the letter crackled suddenly inhis fingers--unless the house that they had built on such strangeand perilous foundations crashed at some moment, without an instant'swarning, in disaster and ruin to the ground. Who knew but that thisletter now, another call to the Gray Seal to act, another peril invited,would be the LAST? There must be an end some day; luck and nerve hadtheir limitations--it had almost ended last week!
"Dear Philanthropic Crook"--it was the same inevitable beginning. "Youare well enough again, aren't you, Jimmie?--I am sending these littlethings back to you, for you will need them to-night."--Jimmie Dale readon, muttering snatches of the letter aloud: "Michael Breen prospectingin Alaska--map of location of rich mining claim--Hamvert, his formerpartner, had previously fleeced him of fifteen thousand dollars--hisshare of a deal together--Breen was always a very poor man--Breen laterstruck a claim alone; but, taking sick, came back home--died onarrival in New York after giving map to his wife--wife in veryneedy circumstances--lives with little daughter of seven in NewRochelle--works out by the day at Henry Mittel's house on theSound near-by--wife intrusted map for safe-keeping and advice toMittel--Hamvert after map--telephone wires cut--room one hundredand forty-eight, corner, right, first floor, Palais-MetropoleHotel, unoccupied--connecting doors--quarter past nine to-night--theWeasel--Mittel's house later--the police--look out for both the Weaseland the police, Jimmie--"
There was more, several pages of it, explanations, specific details downto a minute description of the locality and plan of the house on theSound. Jimmie Dale, too intent now to mutter, read on silently. At theend he shuffled the sheets a little abstractedly, as his face hardened.Then his fingers began to tear the letter into little shreds, tearing itover and over again, tearing the shreds into tiny particles. He had notbeen far wrong. From what the night promised now, this might well be thelast letter. Who knew? There would be need of all the wit and luck andnerve to-night that the Gray Seal had ever had before.
With a jerk, Jimmie Dale roused himself from the momentary reverie intowhich he had fallen; and, all action now, stuffed the torn pieces of theletter into his trousers pocket to be disposed of later in the street;took off the old coat and slouch hat again, and resumed the disposal ofLarry the Bat's effects under the flooring.
This accomplished, he replaced the planking and oilcloth, stood up, puton his dress coat and light overcoat, and, from the table, stowed theblack silk mask, the automatic, the little kit of tools, the flashlight,and the thin metal case away in his pockets.
Jimmie Dale raised his hand to the gas fixture, circled the room with aglance that missed no single detail--then the light went out, the doorclosed behind him, locked, a dark shadow crept silently down the stairs,out through the side door into the alleyway, along the alleyway close tothe wall of the tenement where it was blackest, and, satisfied thatfor the moment there were no passers-by, emerged on the street, walkingleisurely toward the Bowery.
Once well away from the Sanctuary, however, Jimmie Dale quickened hissteps; and twenty minutes later, having stopped but once to telephone tohis home on Riverside Drive for his touring car, he was briskly mountingthe steps of the St. James Club on Fifth Avenue. Another twenty minutesafter that, and he had dismissed Benson, his chauffeur, and, atthe wheel of his big, powerful machine, was speeding uptown for thePalais-M
etropole Hotel.
It was twelve minutes after nine when he drew up at the curb in front ofthe side entrance of the hotel--his watch, set by guesswork, had been alittle slow, and he had corrected it at the club. He was replacing thewatch in his pocket as he sauntered around the corner, and passed inthrough the main entrance to the big lobby.
Jimmie Dale avoided the elevators--it was only one flight up, andelevator boys on occasions had been known to be observant. At the topof the first landing, a long, wide, heavily carpeted corridor was beforehim. "Number one hundred and forty-eight, the corner room on the right,"the Tocsin had said. Jimmie Dale walked nonchalantly along--past No.148. At the lower end of the hall a group of people were gathered aroundthe elevator doors; halfway down the corridor a bell boy came out of aroom and went ahead of Jimmie Dale.
And then Jimmie Dale stopped suddenly, and began to retrace his steps.The group had entered the elevator, the bell boy had disappeared aroundthe farther end of the hall into the wing of the hotel--the corridorwas empty. In a moment he was standing before the door of No. 148;in another, under the persuasion of a little steel instrument, deftlymanipulated by Jimmie Dale's slim, tapering fingers, the lock clickedback, the door opened, and he stepped inside, closing and locking thedoor again behind him.
It was already a quarter past nine, but no one was as yet in theconnecting room--the fanlight next door had been dark as he passed. Hisflashlight swept about him, located the connecting door--and went out.He moved to the door, tried it, and found it locked. Again the littlesteel instrument came into play, released the lock, and Jimmie Daleopened the door. Again the flashlight winked. The door opened into abathroom that, obviously, at will, was either common to the two rooms orcould, by the simple expedient of locking one door or the other, be usedby one of the rooms alone. In the present instance, the occupant of theadjoining apartment had taken "a room with a bath."
Jimmie Dale passed through the bathroom to the opposite door. This wasalready three-quarters open, and swung outward into the bedroom, nearthe lower end of the room by the window. Through the crack of the doorby the hinges, Jimmie Dale flashed his light, testing the radius ofvision, pushed the door a few inches wider open, tested it again withthe flashlight--and retreated back into No. 148, closing the door on hisside until it was just ajar.
He stood there then silently waiting. It was Hamvert's room next door,and Hamvert and the Weasel were already late. A step sounded outside inthe corridor. Jimmie Dale straightened intently. The step passed ondown the hallway and died away. A false alarm! Jimmie Dale smiledwhimsically. It was a strange adventure this that confronted him, quitethe strangest in a way that the Tocsin had ever planned--and the nightlay before him full of peril in its extraordinary complications. To winthe hand he must block Hamvert and the Weasel without allowing them aninkling that his interference was anything more than, say, the luck ofa hotel sneak thief at most. The Weasel was a dangerous man, one of theslickest second-story workers in the country, with safe cracking as oneof his favourite pursuits, a man most earnestly desired by the police,provided the latter could catch him "with the goods." As for Hamvert,he did not know Hamvert, who was a stranger in New York, except thatHamvert had fleeced a man named Michael Breen out of his share in aclaim they had had together when Breen had first gone to Alaska to tryhis luck, and now, having discovered that Breen, when prospecting alonesomewhere in the interior a month or so ago, had found a rich vein andhad made a map or diagram of its location, he, Hamvert, had followedthe other to New York for the purpose of getting it by hook or crook.Breen's "find" had been too late; taken sick, he had never worked hisclaim, had barely got back home before he died, and only in time to handhis wife the strange legacy of a roughly scrawled little piece of paper,and--Jimmie Dale straightened up alertly once more. Steps again--andthis time coming from the direction of the elevator; then voices; thenthe opening of the door of the next room; then a voice, distinctlyaudible:
"Pull up a chair, and we'll get down to business. You're late, as it is.We haven't any time to waste, if we're going to wash pay-dirt to-night."
"Aw, dat's all right!" responded another voice--quite evidently theWeasel's. "Don't youse worry--de game's cinched to a fadeaway."
There was the sound of chairs being moved across the floor. Jimmie Daleslipped the black silk mask over his face, opened the door on his sideof the bathroom cautiously, and, without a sound, stepped into thebathroom that was lighted now, of course, by the light streaming inthrough the partially opened door of Hamvert's room. The two weretalking earnestly now in lower tones. Jimmie Dale only caught a wordhere and there--his faculties for the moment were concentrated ontraversing the bathroom silently. He reached the farther door, crouchedthere, peered through the crack--and the old whimsical smile flickeredacross his lips again.
The Palais-Metropole was high class and exclusive, and the Weasel foronce looked quite the gentleman, and, for all his sharp, ferret face,not entirely out of keeping with his surroundings--else he would neverhave got farther than the lobby. The other was a short, thickset,heavy-jowled man, with a great shock of sandy hair, and small black eyesthat looked furtively out from overhanging, bushy eyebrows.
"Well," Hamvert was saying, "the details are your concern. What Iwant is results. We won't waste time. You're to be back here bydaylight--only see that there's no come-back."
"Leave it to me!" returned the Weasel, with assurance. "How's deregoin' ter be any come-back? Mittel keeps it in his safe, don't he? Well,gentlemen's houses has been robbed before--an' dis job'll be a good one.De geographfy stunt youse wants gets pinched wid de rest, dat's all. Itdisappears--see? Who's ter know youse gets yer claws on it? It's justlost in de shuffle."
"Right!" agreed Hamvert briskly--and from his inside pocket produceda package of crisp new bills, yellow-backs, and evidently of largedenominations. "Half down and half on delivery--that's our deal."
"Dat's wot!" assented the Weasel curtly.
Hamvert began to count the bills.
Jimmie Dale's hand stole into his pocket, and came out with hishandkerchief and the thin metal insignia case. From the latter, with itslittle pair of tweezers, he took out one of the adhesive gray seals.His eyes warily on the two men, he dropped the seal on his handkerchief,restored the thin metal case to his pocket--and in its stead theblue-black ugly muzzle of his automatic peeped from between his fingers.
"Five thousand down," said Hamvert, pushing a pile of notes across thetable, and tucking the remainder back into his pocket; "and the otherfive's here for you when you get back with the map. Ordinarily, Iwouldn't pay a penny in advance, but since you want it that way andthe map's no good to you while the rest of the long green is, I--" Heswallowed his words with a startled gulp, clutched hastily at the moneyon the table, and began to struggle up from his chair to his feet.
With a swift, noiseless side-step through the open door, Jimmie Dale wasstanding in the room.
Jimmie Dale's tones were conversational. "Don't get up," said JimmieDale coolly. "And take your hand off that money!"
The Weasel, whose back had been to the door, squirmed around in hischair--and in his turn stared into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's revolver,while his jaw dropped and sagged.
"Good-evening, Weasel," observed Jimmie Dale casually. "I seem to be inluck to-night. I got into that room next door, but an empty room is slimpicking. And then it seemed to me I heard some one in here mention fivethousand dollars twice, which makes ten thousand, and which happens tobe just exactly the sum I need at the present moment--if I can't get anymore! I haven't the honour of your wealthy friend's acquaintance, butI am really charmed to meet him. You--er--understand, both of you, thatthe slightest sound might prove extremely embarrassing."
Hamvert's face was white, and he stirred uneasily in his chair; butinto the Weasel's face, the first shock of surprised dismay past, camea dull, angry red, and into the eyes a vicious gleam--and suddenly helaughed shortly.
"Why, youse damned fool," jeered the Weasel, "d'youse t'ink youse c
anget away wid dat! Say, take it from me, youse are a piker! Say, yousemake me tired. Wot d'youse t'ink youse are? D'youse t'ink dis is atee-ayter, an' dat youse are a cheap-skate actor strollin' acrost destage? Aw, beat it, youse make me sick! Why, say, youse pinch dat money,an' youse have got de same chanst of gettin' outer dis hotel as a guyhas of breakin' outer Sing Sing! By de time youse gets five feet from dedoor of dis room we has de whole works on yer neck."
"Do you think so, Weasel?" inquired Jimmie Dale politely. He carried hishandkerchief to his mouth to cloak a cough--and his tongue touchedthe adhesive side of the little diamond-shaped gray seal. Hand andhandkerchief came back to the table, and Jimmie Dale leaned his weightcarelessly upon it, while the automatic in his right hand still coveredthe two men. "Do you think so, Weasel?" he repeated softly. "Well,perhaps you are right; and yet; somehow, I am inclined to disagree withyou. Let me see, Weasel--it was Tuesday night, two nights ago; wasn'tit, that a trifling break in Maiden Lane at Thorold and Sons disturbedthe police? It was a three-year job for even a first offender, tenfor one already on nodding terms with the police and fifteen to twentyfor--well, say, for a man like you, Weasel--IF HE WERE CAUGHT! Am Imaking myself quite plain?"
The colour in the Weasel's cheeks faded a little--his eyes were holdingin sudden fascination upon Jimmie Dale.
"I see that I am," observed Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "I said, 'if he werecaught,' you will remember. I am going to leave this room in a moment,Weasel, and leave it entirely to your discretion as to whether you willthink it wise or not to stir from that chair for ten minutes afterI shut the door. And now"--Jimmie Dale nonchalantly replaced hishandkerchief in his pocket, nonchalantly followed it with the banknoteswhich he picked up from the table--and smiled.
With a gasp, both men had strained forward, and were staring, wild-eyed,at the gray seal stuck between them on the tabletop.
"The Gray Seal!" whispered the Weasel, and his tongue circled his lips.
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders.
"That WAS a bit theatrical, Weasel," he said apologetically; "and yetnot wholly unnecessary. You will recall Stangeist, The Mope, AustralianIke, and Clarie Deane, and can draw your own inference as to what mighthappen in the Thorold affair if you should be so ill-advised as to forcemy hand. Permit me"--the slim, deft fingers, like a streak of lightning,were inside Hamvert's coat pocket and out again with the remainder ofthe banknotes--and Jimmie Dale was backing for the door--not the doorof the bathroom by which he had entered, but the door of the room itselfthat opened on the corridor. There he stopped, and his hand swept aroundbehind his back and turned the key in the locked door. He nodded at thetwo men, whose faces were working with incongruously mingled expressionsof impotent rage, bewilderment, fear, and fury--and opened the door alittle. "Ten minutes, Weasel," he said gently. "I trust you will nothave to use heroic measures to restrain your friend for that length oftime, though if it is necessary I should advise you for your own sake toresort almost--to murder. I wish you good evening, gentlemen."
The door opened farther; Jimmie Dale, still facing inward, slippedbetween it and the jamb, whipped the mask from his face, closed the doorsoftly, stepped briskly but without any appearance of haste along thecorridor to the stairs, descended the stairs, mingled with a crowd inthe lobby for an instant, walked, seemingly a part of it, with a groupof ladies and gentlemen down the hall to the side entrance, passedout--and a moment later, after drawing on a linen dust coat which hetook from under the seat, and exchanging his hat for a tweed cap, thecar glided from the curb and was lost in a press of traffic around thecorner.
Jimmie Dale laughed a little harshly to himself. So far, so good--butthe game was not ended yet for all the crackle of the crisp notes inhis pocket. There was still the map, still the robbery at Mittel'shouse--the ten-thousand-dollar "theft" would not in any way change that,and it was a question of time now to forestall any move the Weasel mightmake.
Through the city Jimmie Dale alternately dodged, spurted, and draggedhis way, fuming with impatience; but once out on the country roads andheaded toward New Rochelle, the big machine, speed limits thrown to thewinds, roared through the night--a gray streak of road jumping under thepowerful lamps; a village, a town, a cluster of lights flashing by him,the steady purr of his sixty-horse-power engines; the gray thread ofopen road again.
It was just eleven o'clock when Jimmie Dale, the road to himself for themoment at a spot a little beyond New Rochelle, extinguished his lights,and very carefully ran his car off the road, backing it in behind asmall clump of trees. He tossed the linen dust coat back into the car,and set off toward where, a little distance away, the slap of waves fromthe stiff breeze that was blowing indicated the shore line of the Sound.There was no moon, and, while it was not particularly dark, objects andsurroundings at best were blurred and indistinct; but that, after all,was a matter of little concern to Jimmie Dale--the first house beyondwas Mittel's. He reached the water's edge and kept along the shore.There should be a little wharf, she had said. Yes; there it was--andthere, too, was a gleam of light from the house itself.
Jimmie Dale began to make an accurate mental note of his surroundings.From the little wharf on which he now stood, a path led straight to thehouse, bisecting what appeared to be a lawn, trees to the right, thehouse to the left. At the wharf, beside him, two motor boats weremoored, one on each side. Jimmie Dale glanced at them, and, suddenlyattracted by the familiar appearance of one, inspected it a little moreclosely. His momentarily awakened interest passed as he nodded his head.It had caught his attention, that was all--it was the same type anddesign, quite a popular make, of which there were hundreds around NewYork, as the one he had bought that year as a tender for his yacht.
He moved forward now toward the house, the rear of which faced him--thelight that flooded the lawn came from a side window. Jimmie Dale wasfiguring the time and distance from New York as he crept cautiouslyalong. How quickly could the Weasel make the journey? The Weasel wouldundoubtedly come, and if there was a convenient train it might prove aclose race--but in his own favour was the fact that it would probablytake the Weasel quite some little time to recover his equilibrium fromhis encounter with the Gray Seal in the Palais-Metropole, also thefurther fact that, from the Weasel's viewpoint, there was no desperateneed of haste. Jimmie Dale crossed the lawn, and edged along in theshadows of the house to where the light streamed out from what nowproved to be open French windows. It was a fair presumption that hewould have an hour to the good on the Weasel.
The sill was little more than a couple of feet from the ground, and,from a crouched position on his knees below the window, Jimmie Daleraised himself slowly and peered guardedly inside. The room was empty.He listened a moment--the black silk mask was on his face again--andwith a quick, agile, silent spring he was in the room.
And then, in the centre of the room, Jimmie Dale stood motionless,staring around him, an expression, ironical, sardonic, creeping into hisface. THE ROBBERY HAD ALREADY BEEN COMMITTED! At the lower end of theroom everything was in confusion; the door of a safe swung wide, thedrawers of a desk had been wrenched out, even a liqueur stand, on whichwere well-filled decanters, had been broken open, and the contents ofsafe and desk, the thief's discards as it were, littered the floor inall directions.
For an instant Jimmie Dale, his eyes narrowed ominously, surveyed thescene; then, with a sort of professional instinct aroused, he steppedforward to examine the safe--and suddenly darted behind the deskinstead. Steps sounded in the hall. The door opened--a voice reachedhim:
"The master said I was to shut the windows, and I haven't dast to go in.And he'll be back with the police in a minute now. Come on in with me,Minnie."
"Lord!" exclaimed another voice. "Ain't it a good thing the missus isaway. She'd have highsteericks!"
Steps came somewhat hesitantly across the floor--from behind the desk,Jimmie Dale could see that it was a maid, accompanied by a big, rawbonedwoman, sleeves rolled to the elbows over brawny arms, presumably theMittels' cook.
/> The maid closed the French windows, there were no others in the room,and bolted them; and, having gained a little confidence, gazed abouther.
"My, but wasn't he cute!" she ejaculated. "Cut the telephone wires, hedid. And ain't he made an awful mess! But the master said we wasn't totouch nothing till the police saw it."
"And to think of it happening in OUR house!" observed the cook heavily,her hands on her hips, her arms akimbo. "It'll all be in the papers, andmabbe they'll put our pictures in, too."
"I won't get over it as long as I live!" declared the maid. "The yellMr. Mittel gave when he came downstairs and put his head in here,and then him shouting and using the most terrible language intothe telephone, and then finding the wires cut. And me following himdownstairs half dead with fright. And he shouts at me. 'Bella,' heshouts, 'shut those windows, but don't you touch a thing in that room.I'm going for the police.' And then he rushes out of the house."
"I was going to bed," said the cook, picking up her cue for what wasprobably the twentieth rehearsal of the scene, "when I heard Mr. Mittelyell, and--Lord, Bella, there he is now!"
Jimmie Dale's hands clenched. He, too, had caught the scuffle offootsteps, those of three or four men at least, on the front porch.There was one way, only one, of escape--through the French windows!It was a matter of seconds only before Mittel, with the police at hisheels, would be in the room--and Jimmie Dale sprang to his feet. Therewas a wild scream of terror from the maid, echoed by another from thecook--and, still screaming, both women fled for the door.
"Mr. Mittel! Mr. Mittel!" shrieked the maid--she had flung herself outinto the hall. "He's--he's back again!"
Jimmie Dale was at the French windows, tearing at the bolts. Theystuck. Shouts came from the front entryway. He wrenched viciously at thefastenings. They gave now. The windows flew open. He glanced over hisshoulder. A man, Mittel presumably, since he was the only one not inuniform, was springing into the room. There was a blur of forms andbrass buttons behind Mittel--and Jimmie Dale leaped to the lawn,speeding across it like a deer.
But quick as he ran, Jimmie Dale's brain was quicker, pointing thesingle chance that seemed open to him. The motor boat! It seemed like aGod-given piece of luck that he had noticed it was like his own; therewould be no blind, and that meant fatal, blunders in the dark over itsmechanism, and he could start it up in a moment--just the time to casther off, that was all he needed.
The shouts swelled behind him. Jimmie Dale was running for his life. Heflung a glance backward. One form--Mittel, he was certain--was perhaps ahundred yards in the rear. The others were just emerging from theFrench windows--grotesque, leaping things they looked, in the light thatstreamed out behind them from the room.
Jimmie Dale's feet pounded the planking of the wharf. He stooped andsnatched at the mooring line. Mittel was almost at the wharf. It seemedan age, a year to Jimmie Dale before the line was clear. Shouts rangstill louder across the lawn--the police, racing in a pack, were morethan halfway from the house. He flung the line into the boat, sprang inafter it--and Mittel, looming over him, grasped at the boat's gunwhale.
Both men were panting from their exertions.
"Let go!" snarled Jimmie Dale between clenched teeth.
Mittel's answer was a hoarse, gasping shout to the police to hurry--andthen Mittel reeled back, measuring his length upon the wharf from a blowwith a boat hook full across the face, driven with a sudden, untamedsavagery that seemed for the moment to have mastered Jimmie Dale.
There was no time--not a second--not the fraction of a second.Desperately, frantically he shoved the boat clear of the wharf.Once--twice--three times he turned the engine over without success--andthen the boat leaped forward. Jimmie Dale snatched the mask from hisface, and jumped for the steering wheel. The police were rushing outalong the wharf. He could just faintly discern Mittel now--the man wasstaggering about, his hands clapped to his face. A peremptory order tohalt, coupled with a threat to fire, rang out sharply--and Jimmie Daleflung himself flat in the bottom of the boat. The wharf edge seemed toopen in little, crackling jets of flame, came the roar of reports like aminiature battery in action, then the FLOP, FLOP, FLOP, as the lead toreup the water around him, the duller thud as a bullet buried its nose inthe boat's side, and the curious rip and squeak as a splinter flew. ThenMittel's voice, high-pitched, as though in pain:
"Can't any of you run a motor boat? He's got me bad, I'm afraid. Thatother one there is twice as fast."
"Sure!" another voice responded promptly. "And if that's right, he's runhis head into a trap. Cast loose, there, MacVeay, and pile in, all ofyou! You go back to the house, Mr. Mittel, and fix yourself up. We'llget him!"
Jimmie Dale's lips thinned. It was true! If the other boat had any speedat all, it was only a question of time before he would be overtaken.The only point at issue was how much time. It was dark--that was in hisfavour--but it was not so dark but that a boat could be distinguished onthe water for quite a distance, for a longer distance than he could hopeto put between them. There was no chance of eluding the police thatway! The keen, facile brain that had saved the Gray Seal a hundred timesbefore was weaving, planning, discarding, eliminating, scheming a wayout--with death, ruin, disaster the price of failure. His eyes sweptthe dim, irregular outline of the shore. To his right, in the oppositedirection from where he had left his car, and perhaps a mile ahead, aswell as he could judge, the land seemed to run out into a point. JimmieDale headed for it instantly. If he could reach it with a little lead tothe good, there was a chance! It would take, say, six minutes, grantingthe boat a speed of ten miles an hour--and she could do that. The otherscould hardly overtake him in that time--they hadn't got started yet. Hecould hear them still shouting and talking at the wharf. And Mittel's"twice as fast" was undoubtedly an exaggeration, anyhow.
A minute more passed, another--and then, astern, Jimmie Dale caught theracket from the exhaust of a high-powered engine, and a white streakseemed to shoot out upon the surface of the water from where, obscurednow, he placed the wharf. A quarter-mile lead, roughly four hundredyards; yes, he had as much as that--but that, too, was very little.
He bent over his engine, coaxing it, nursing it to its highestefficiency; his eyes strained now upon the point ahead, now upon hispursuers behind. He was running with the wind, thank Heaven! or thesmall boat would have had a further handicap--it was rolling up quite asea.
The steering gear, he found, was corded along the side of the boat,permitting its manipulation from almost any position, and, abruptly now,Jimmie Dale left the engine to rummage through the little locker in thestern of the boat. But as he rummaged, his eyes held speculatively onthe boat astern. She was gaining unquestionably, steadily, but not asfast as he had feared. He would still have a hundred yards' lead, atleast, abreast the point--and, he was smiling grimly now, a hundredyards there meant life to the Gray Seal! The locker was full of aheterogeneous collection of odds and ends--a suit of oilskins, tools,tins, and cans of various sizes and descriptions. Jimmie Dale emptiedthe contents, some sort of powder, of a small, round tin box overboard,and from his pocket took out the banknotes, crammed them into the box,crammed his watch in on top of them, and screwed the cover on tightly.His fingers were flying now. A long strip torn from the trousers' leg ofthe oilskins was wrapped again and again around the box--and the box wasstuffed into his pocket.
The flash of a revolver shot cut the blackness behind him, then another,and another. They were firing in a continuous stream again. It wasfairly long range, but there was always the chance of a stray bulletfinding its mark. Jimmie Dale, crouching low, made his way to the bow ofthe boat again.
The point was looming almost abreast now. He edged in nearer, to hugit as closely as he dared risk the depth of the water. Behind,remorselessly, the other boat was steadily closing the gap; and theshots were not all wild--one struck, with a curious singing sound, onsome piece of metal a foot from his elbow. Closer to the shore, runningnow parallel with the head of the point, Jimmie Dale again edged in theboat,
his jaws, clamped, working in little twitches.
And then suddenly, with a swift, appraising glance behind him, heswerved the boat from her course and headed for the shore--not directly,but diagonally across the little bay that, on the farther side of thepoint, had now opened out before him. He was close in with the edge ofthe point, ten yards from it, sweeping past it--the point itself camebetween the two boats, hiding them from each other--and Jimmie Dale,with a long spring, dove from the boat's side to the water.
The momentum from the boat as he sank robbed him for an instant of allcontrol over himself, and he twisted, doubled up, and rolled over andover beneath the water--but the next moment his head was above thesurface again, and he was striking out swiftly for the shore. It wasonly a few yards--but in a few SECONDS the pursuing boat, too, wouldhave rounded the point. His feet touched bottom. It was haste now,nothing else, that counted. The drum of the racing engines, thecrackling roar of the exhaust from the oncoming boat was in his ears. Heflung himself upon the shore and down behind a rock. Around the point,past him, tore the police boat, dark forms standing clustered in thebow--and then a sudden shout:
"There she is! See her? She's heading into the bay for the shore!"
Jimmie Dale's lips relaxed. There was no doubt that they had sightedtheir quarry again--a perfect fusillade of revolver shots directed atthe now empty boat was quite sufficient proof of that! With somethingthat was almost a chuckle, Jimmie Dale straightened up from behind therock and began to run back along the shore. The little motor boat wouldhave grounded long before they overtook her, and, thinking naturallyenough, that he had leaped ashore from her, they would go thrashingthrough the woods and fields searching for him!
It was a longer way back by the shore, a good deal longer; now overrough, rocky stretches where he stumbled in the darkness, now throughmarshy, sodden ground where he sank as in a quagmire time and again overhis ankles. It was even longer than he had counted on, and time, withthe Weasel on one hand and the return of the police on the other, wasa factor to be reckoned with again, as, a half hour later, Jimmie Dalestole across the lawn of Mittel's house for the second time that night,and for the second time crouched beneath the open French windows.
Masked again, the water still dripping from what were once immaculateevening clothes but which now sagged limply about him, his collar apasty string around his neck, the mud and dirt splashed to his knees,Jimmie Dale was a disreputable and incongruous-looking object as hecrouched there, shivering uncomfortably from his immersion in spite ofhis exertions. Inside the room, Mittel passed the windows, pacing thefloor, one side of his face badly cut and bruised from the blow with theboat hook--and as he passed, his back turned for an instant, Jimmie Dalestepped into the room.
Mittel whirled at the sound, and, with a suppressed cry, instinctivelydrew back--Jimmie Dale's automatic was dangling carelessly in his righthand.
"I am afraid I am a trifle melodramatic," observed Jimmie Daleapologetically, surveying his own bedraggled person; "but I assure youit is neither intentional nor for effect. As it is, I was afraid I wouldbe late. Pardon me if I take the liberty of helping myself; one gets achill in wet clothes so easily"--he passed to the liqueur stand, pouredout a generous portion from one of the decanters, and tossed it off.
Mittel neither spoke nor moved. Stupefaction, surprise, and a veryobvious regard for Jimmie Dale's revolver mingled themselves in ahelpless expression on his face.
Jimmie Dale set down his glass and pointed to a chair in front of thedesk.
"Sit down, Mr. Mittel," he invited pleasantly. "It will be quiteapparent to you that I have not time to prolong our interviewunnecessarily, in view of the possible return of the police at anymoment, but you might as well be comfortable. You will pardon me againif I take another liberty"--he crossed the room, turned the key in thelock of the door leading into the hall, and returned to the desk. "Sitdown, Mr. Mittel!" he repeated, a sudden rasp in his voice.
Mittel, none too graciously, now seated himself.
"Look here, my fine fellow," he burst out, "you're carrying things witha pretty high hand, aren't you? You seem to have eluded the police forthe moment, somehow, but let me tell you I--"
"No," interrupted Jimmie Dale softly, "let ME tell you--all there isto be told." He leaned over the desk and stared rudely at the bruise onMittel's face. "Rather a nasty crack, that," he remarked.
Mittel's fists clenched, and an angry flush swept his cheeks.
"I'd have made it a good deal harder," said Jimmie Dale, with suddeninsolence, "if I hadn't been afraid of putting you out of business andso precluding the possibility of this little meeting. Now then"--therevolver swung upward and held steadily on a line with Mittel's eyes--"I'll trouble you for the diagram of that Alaskan claim that belongs toMrs. Michael Breen!"
Mittel, staring fascinated into the little, round, black muzzle of theautomatic, edged back in his chair.
"So--so that's what you're after, is it?" he jerked out. "Well"--helaughed unnaturally and waved his hand at the disarray of theroom--"it's been stolen already."
"I know that," said Jimmie Dale grimly. "By--YOU!"
"Me!" Mittel started up in his chair, a whiteness creeping into hisface. "Me! I--I--"
"Sit down!" Jimmie Dale's voice rang out ominously cold. "I haven't anytime to spare. You can appreciate that. But even if the police returnbefore that map is in my possession, they will still be TOO LATE asfar as you are concerned. Do you understand? Furthermore, if I amcaught--you are ruined. Let me make it quite plain that I knowthe details of your little game. You are a curb broker, Mr.Mittel--ostensibly. In reality, you run what is nothing better than anexceedingly profitable bucket shop. The Weasel has been a customerand also a stool for you for years. How Hamvert met the Weasel isunimportant--he came East with the intention of getting in touch with aslick crook to help him--the Weasel is the coincidence, that is all. Iquite understand that you have never met Hamvert, nor Hamvert you, northat Hamvert was aware that you and the Weasel had anything to dowith one another and were playing in together--but that equally isunimportant. When Hamvert engaged the Weasel for ten thousand dollarsto get the map from you for him, the Weasel chose the line of leastresistance. He KNEW you, and approached you with an offer to split themoney in return for the map. It was not a question of your accepting hisoffer--it was simply a matter of how you could do it and still protectyourself. The Weasel was well qualified to point the way--a fake robberyof your house would answer the purpose admirably--you could not be heldeither legally or morally responsible for a document that was placed,unsolicited by you, in your possession, if it were stolen from you."
Mittel's face was ashen, colourless. His hands were opening and shuttingwith nervous twitches on the top of the desk.
Jimmie Dale's lips curled.
"But"--Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words now viciously--"neitheryou nor the Weasel were willing to trust the other implicitly--perhapsyou know each other too well. You were unwilling to turn over the mapuntil you had received your share of the money, and you were equallyunwilling to turn it over until you were SAFE; that is, until you hadengineered your fake robbery even to the point of notifying the policethat it had been committed; the Weasel, on the other hand, had somescruples about parting with any of the money without getting the map inone hand before he let go of the banknotes with the other. It was verysimply arranged, however, and to your mutual satisfaction. While yourobbed your own house this evening, he was to get half the money inadvance from Hamvert, giving Hamvert to understand that HE had plannedto commit the robbery himself to-night. He was to come out here then,receive the map from you in exchange for your share of the money, returnto Hamvert with the map, and receive in turn his own share. I mightsay that Hamvert actually paid down the advance--and it was perhapsunfortunate for you that you paid such scrupulous attention to detailsas to cut your own telephone wires! I had not, of course, an exactknowledge of the hour or minute in which you proposed to stage yourlittle play here. The object of my first
visit a little while ago wasto forestall your turning the diagram over to the Weasel. Circumstancesfavoured you for the moment. I am back again, however, for the samepurpose--the map!"
Mittel, in a cowed way, was huddled back in his chair. He smiledmiserably at Jimmie Dale.
"QUICK!" Jimmie Dale flung out the word in a sharp, peremptory bark. "Doyou need to be told that the CARTRIDGES are dry?"
Mittel's hand, trembling, went into his pocket and produced an envelope.
"Open it!" commanded Jimmie Dale. "And lay it on the desk, so that I canread it--I am too wet to touch it."
Mittel obeyed--like a dog that has been whipped.
A glance at the paper, and Jimmie Dale's eyes lifted again--to sweep thefloor of the room. He pointed to a pile of books and documents in onecorner that had been thrown out of the safe.
"Go over there and pick up that check book!" he ordered tersely.
"What for?" Mittel made feeble protest.
"Never mind what for!" snapped Jimmie Dale. "Go and get it--and HURRY!"
Once more Mittel obeyed--and dropped the book hesitantly on the desk.
Jimmie Dale stared silently, insolently, contemptuously at the other.
Mittel stirred uneasily, sat down, shifted his feet, and his fingersfumbled aimlessly over the top of the desk.
"Compared with you," said Jimmie Dale, in a low voice, "the Weasel, ay,and Hamvert, too, crooks though they are, are gentlemen! Michael Breen,as he died, told his wife to take that paper to some one she couldtrust, who would help her and tell her what to do; and, knowing no oneto go to, but because she scrubbed your floors and therefore thoughtyou were a fine gentleman, she came timidly to you, and trusted you--youcur!"
Jimmie Dale laughed suddenly--not pleasantly. Mittel shivered.
"Hamvert and Breen were partners out there in Alaska when Breen firstwent out," said Jimmie Dale slowly, pulling the tin can wrapped inoilskin from his pocket. "Hamvert swindled Breen out of the one strikehe made, and Mrs. Breen and her little girl back here were reduced topoverty. The amount of that swindle was, I understand, fifteen thousanddollars. I have ten of it here, contributed by the Weasel and Hamvert;and you will, I think, recognise therein a certain element of poeticjustice--but I am still short five thousand dollars."
Jimmie Dale removed the cover from the tin can. Mittel gazed at thecontents numbly.
"You perhaps did not hear me?" prompted Jimmie Dale coldly. "I am stillshort five thousand dollars."
Mittel circled his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"What do you want?" he whispered hoarsely.
"The balance of the amount." There was an ominous quiet in JimmieDale's voice. "A check payable to Mrs. Michael Breen for five thousanddollars."
"I--I haven't got that much in the bank," Mittel fenced, stammering.
"No? Then I should advise you to see that you have by ten o'clockto-morrow morning!" returned Jimmie Dale curtly. "Make out that check!"
Mittel hesitated. The revolver edged insistently a little farther acrossthe desk--and Mittel, picking up a pen, wrote feverishly. He tore thecheck from its stub, and, with a snarl, pushed it toward Jimmie Dale.
"Fold it!" instructed Jimmie Dale, in the same curt tones. "And foldthat diagram with it. Put them both in this box. Thank you!" He wrappedthe oilskin around the box again, and returned the box to his pocket.And again with that insolent, contemptuous stare, he surveyed the man atthe desk--then he backed to the French windows. "It might be as well toremind you, Mittel," he cautioned sternly, "that if for any reason thischeck is not honoured, whether through lack of funds or an attempt byyou to stop payment, you'll be in a cell in the Tombs to-morrow for thisnight's work--that is quite understood, isn't it?"
Mittel was on his feet--sweat glistened on his forehead.
"My God!" he cried out shrilly. "Who are you?"
And Jimmie Dale smiled and stepped out on the lawn.
"Ask the Weasel," said Jimmie Dale--and the next instant, lost in theshadows of the house, was running for his car.