Part 1 Chapter 7C of The Adventures of Jimmy Dale This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard, reading by Lars Rolander. Part 1 The Man in the Case, Chapter 7C The Thief concluded, On his hands and knees protected from the possibility of another bullet by the height of the seal, Jimmy Dale, quick in every movement, now dragged the inert form toward the table away from the window, and bent hurriedly over the other. A minute perhaps he stayed there, and then rose slowly. Burton, horror-stricken, unmaned beside himself, was hanging, clutching with both hands at the table edge. He is dead, said Jimmy Dale, laconately. Burton flung out his hands. Dead, he whispered hoarsely, I think I'm going mad. Three days of hell, and now this. Wait, we'd better get out of here quick. They'll get us if— Jimmy Dale's hand fell with a tight grip on Burton's shoulder. There won't be any more shots fired. Pull yourself together. Burton stared at him in a demented way. What's—what's it mean? he stammered. It means that I didn't put two and two together, said Jimmy Dale a little bitterly. It means that there's a dozen crooks been dancing old Isaac's tune for a long time, and that some of them have got him at last. Burton reached out suddenly, and clutched Jimmy Dale's arm. Then I'm safe. He mumbled the words, but there was a dawning hope, relief in his white face. Safe. I'm safe. If you'd only give me back those stones, give them back to me. For God's sake, give them back to me. You don't know. You don't understand. I stole them because—because he made me, because I—it was the only chance I had.  Give them back to me, won't you? Won't you? You—you don't know. Don't lose your nerve, said Jimmy Dale sharply. Sit down. He pushed the other into the chair. There is no one will disturb us here for some time, at least. What is it that I don't know? At three nights ago you were in a gambling hell—Sagostus, to be exact, one of the most disreputable in New York, and you went there on the invitation of a stray acquaintance, a mine named Pearly. Shall I describe him for you? A short, slim, bulk man, black eyes, red hair, beard, and— You know that?  There was silence for a moment. Tightly, Jimmy Dale's eyes travelled from Burton's shaking shoulders to the motionless form on the floor. Then he spoke again.  You were half drunk when you and Pearly began to hobnob over a downtown bar. He said he'd show you some real life, and you went with him to Sagostus. He gave you a revolver before you went in and told you the place wasn't safe for an unarmed man. He introduced you to Sagostus, the proprietor, and you were shown to a back room. You drank quite a little there. You and Perky were alone, throwing dice. You got into a quarrel. Pearly tried to draw his revolver. You were quicker. You drew the one he had given you and fired. He fell to the floor. You saw the blood gush from his breast just above the heart. He was dead. In a panic you rushed from the place and out into the street. I don't think you went home that night. Burton raised his head, showing his haggard face. I guess it's no use, he said dally. If you know, others must. I thought only Isaac and Sagostun knew. Why haven't I been arrested? I wish to God I had. I wouldn't have had today to answer for him. I'm not through yet, said Jimmy Dale gravely. The next day old Isaac here sent for you. He said Sagosta told him of the murder and had offered to dispose of the corpse and keep his mouth shut for fifty thousand dollars, that no one in his place knew of it except himself. Isaac for his share wanted considerably more.  He told you how you could get it. You had access to Madden's save. You were Madden's confidential secretary, fully in your employer's trust, the last man on earth to be suspected. And there were Madden's famous priceless rubies. Jimmy Dale paused. Burton made no answer. And so, said Jimmy Dale presently, to save yourself from the death penalty you took them. Yes, said Burton, scarcely about his breath. Are you an officer? If you are, take me. Have done with it, only for a heb and sake end it, if you're not. Jimmy Dale was not listening. The cupboard at the rear of the room, she had said. He walked across to it now, opened it, and after a little search found a small bundle. He returned with it in his hand, and kneeling beside the dead man on the floor, he's back to Burton, untied it, took out a red wig and beard, and slipped them on to old Isaac's head and face. I wonder, he said grimly as he stood up, if you ever saw this man before. My God, pearly! With a wild cry Burton was on his feet, straining forward like a man craced. Yes, said Jimmy Dale, pearly, sort of an ironic justice in his end, as far as you are concerned, isn't there? I think we'll leave him like that, as pearly. It will provide the police with an interesting little problem, which they will never solve, and steady. Burton was stroking on his feet, the tears were streaming down his face. He lurched heavily, and Jimmy Dale caught him and pushed him back into the chair again.  It was horrible, horrible. I've lived through three days that I thought would drive me mad while I tried to do my work and talk to people, just as if nothing had happened, and everyone that spoke to me seemed so carefree and happy, and I would have sold my soul to have changed places with them. He stared at the form on the floor and shivered suddenly. It was like that I saw him last, he whispered, but I do not understand. Jimmy Dale smiled a little wearily. It was simple enough, he said. Old Isaac had had his eyes on those rubies for a long time. These his way of getting them was through you. The revolver he gave you before you entered Sagostus was loaded with blank cartridges. The blood you saw was the old, old trick, a punctured bladder of red pigment concealed under the west. Let us get out of here, Burton shouted again. Let us get out of here at once. Now, if we found here, we'll be accused of that. There is no hurry, Jimmy Dale answered quietly. I've told you that no one is liable to come here tonight, and whoever did this certainly will not raise an alarm. And besides, there is still the matters of the rubies, Burton. Yes, said Burton with a quick intake of his breath. Yes, the rubies. What are you going to do with them? I had forgotten them. You'll— He stopped, stared at Jimmy Dale, and burst into a miserable laugh. I'm a fool, a blind fool, he moaned. It does not matter what you do with them. I forgot Sagosto when they find Isaac here. Sagosto will either tell his story, which will be enough to convict me of this night's work, the real murder, even though I'm innocent, or else he'll blackmail me just as Isaac did. Jimmy Dale shook his head. You are doing Isaac's cunning and injustice, he said grimly. Sagosto was only a tool, one of many that old Isaac had in his power, and for that matter, as likely as anyone else to have had a hand in Isaac's murder tonight, Sagosto saw you once when Isaac brought you into his place, not because Isaac wanted Sagosto to see you, but because he wanted you to see Sagosto.  It would make the story that Sagosto came to him with the tale of the murder the next day ring true. Sagosto, however, did not go to old Isaac the next day to tell about any fake murder, naturally. Sagosto would not know you again from Adam. Neither does he know anything about the rubies, nor what old Isaac's ulterior motives were. He was paid for his share in the game in old Isaac's usual manner of payment, probably, by a threat of exposure for some old-time offence that Isaac held over him, if he didn't keep his mouth shut. Burton's hand brushed his eyes. Yes, he muttered. Yes, I see it now. Jimmy Dale stooped down, picked up the paper from the floor in which the wig and bed had been wrapped, walked back with it, and replaced it in the cupboard. And then, with his back to Burton again, he took the case of gems from his pocket, opened it, and laid it on the cupboard shelf. Also from his pocket came that thin metal case, and from the case with a pair of tweezers that obviated the possibility of tell-tale fingerprints, a grey, diamond-shaped piece of paper, add a sieve on one side that, cursed by the distracted authorities in every police headquarters on both sides of the Atlantic, and raided by a virulent press whose printed reproductions had made it familiar in every household in the land, was the insignia of the grey seal. He moistened the adhesive side, dropped it from the tweezers to his handkerchief, and pressed it down firmly on the inside of the cover of the jewel case. He put both cases back in his pockets and returned to Burton. Burton, he said a little sharply, while I was outside that doorway there, I heard you beg old Isaac to let you keep the rubies, and three times already you have asked the same of me, what would you do with them if I gave them back to you?" Burton did not reply for a moment. He was casing at the masked face in a half-eager, half-doubtful way. You mean you will give them back? He burst out finally. I answered my question from to D. Medale. Do with them? Burton repeated slowly. Why? I've told you they'd go back to Mr. Madame. I'd take them back. Would you? D. Medale's voice was quizzical. A puzzled expression came to Burton's face. I don't know what you mean by that, he said. Of course I would. How? asked D. Medale. Do you know the combination of Mr. Madden's safe? No, said Burton. And the safe would be locked, wouldn't it? Yes. Quite so, said D. Medale musingly. Then, granted that Mr. Madden has not already discovered the theft, how would you replace the stones before he does discover it? And if he already knows that they are gone, how would you get them back into his hands? Yes, I know, Burton answered a little listlessly. I've thought of that. There's only one way to take them back to him myself and make a clean breast of it, and he hesitated. And tell him you stole them? Supplied D. Medale. Burton nodded his head. Yes, he said. And then, prodded D. Medale, what will Madden do? From what I've heard of him he's not a man to trifle with, nor a man to take an overly complacent view of things, not the man whose philosophies all swell that ends well. What does it matter? Burton's voice was low. It isn't that so much. I'm ready for that. It's the fact that he trusted me implicitly. And I—well, I played the fool, or I'd never have got into a mess like this. For an instant D. Medale looked at the other searchingly, and then, smiling strangely, he shook his head. There's a better way than that, Burton, he said quietly.  I'm going to give you another chance with Madden. Here are the stones. He reached into his pocket and laid the case on the table. But now Burton made no effort to take the case. His eyes, in that puzzled way again, were on D. Medale. A better way, he repeated tensely. What do you mean, what way? We'll say, at the expanse of another man's reputation, of mine, suggested D. Medale with his whimsical smile, You need only say that a man came to you this evening, told you that he stole these rubies from Mr. Madden during the afternoon, and asked you, as Mr. Madden's private secretary, to restore them with his compliments to their owner.  Are you trying to make a fool of me?   No, inquired D. Medale softly. And yet I'm inclined to think there are a good many, that even Madden would hard-headed as he is. You might say that when the man handed you the case, you thought it was some practical joke being foisted on you, until you opened the case. D. Medale pushed it a little farther across the table, and Burton, mechanically, his eyes still on D. Medale, loosened the catch with his thumbnail, until you opened the case, saw the rubies, and The gray seal! Burton had snatched the case towards him, and was straining his eyes at the inside cover. You, the gray seal! Well, said D. Medale whimsically. Motionless, the case held open his hands, Burton stood there. The gray seal! He whispered, then with the catch in his voice, You mean this? You mean to let me have this back? You mean... You mean all you've said? For God's sake, don't play with me. The gray seal! The most notorious criminal in the country. To give back a fortune like this? You! You! Dog with a bad name, said D. Medale with a wry smile. Then, a little gruffly, put it in your pocket. Slowly, almost as though he expected the case to be snatched back from him the next instant, Burton obeyed. I don't understand. I can't understand, he murmured. They say that you! And yet I believe you now.  The gray seal! If everyone knew what you had done, they... But everyone won't. D. Medale broke in bluntly. Who is to tell them? You! You couldn't very well when you come to think of it, could you? Well, who knows? Perhaps there have been others like you.  I don't mean anything at all, interposed D. Medale a little hurriedly. Nothing, Burton, except that there is still one little thing more to do to bolster up that childish story of mine.  He glanced sharply critically around the room, his eyes resting for a moment at the last on the form of the floor. Then, terrously, I'm going to turn out the light. We will have to pass the window to get to the door and we will invite no chances. Are you ready? No, not yet, said Burton eagerly. I haven't said what I'd like to say to you, what I walked straight to the door, said D. Medale curtly. There was the click of an electric light switch and the room was in darkness. Now, no noise, he instructed. And Burton, perforce, made his way across the room and at the door, D. Medale joined him and led him down the short flight to stairs. At the bottom he opened the door leading into the rear of the pawn shop itself and bidding Burton follow entered. We can't risk even a match. It could be seen from the street, he said brusquely, as he fumbled around for a moment in the darkness. Ah, here it is. He lifted a telephone receiver from its hook and gave a number. Burton caught him quickly by the arm. Good Lord, man, what are you doing? He protested anxiously. That's Mr. Maddon's house. So, I believe, said D. Medale complacently. Hello. Is Mr. Maddon there? I beg pardon. Personally, yes, if you please. There was a moment's wait. Burton's hand was still nervously clutching at D. Medale's sleeve. Then Mr. Maddon asked D. Medale pleasantly, yes, I'm very sorry to trouble you but I called you up to inquire if you were aware that your rubies and among them your arachn had been stolen. I beg pardon? Rubies, yes. You weren't? Oh, no, I'm quite in my right mind. If you will take the trouble to open your safe, you will find they are gone. Shall I hold the line while you investigate? What?  D. Medale's tone was one of insolent composure now. There is really no use in getting excited. I beg pardon? Certainly, this is the grey seal speaking. What? D. Medale's voice grew plaintive. I really can't make out a word when you yell like that. Yes, I had occasion to use them this afternoon and I took the liberty of borrowing them temporarily. Are you still there, Mr. Maddon? Oh, quite so. Yes, I hear you now. No, that is all. Only I am returning them through your private secretary, a very estimable young man, though I fear somewhat excitable and shaky, who is on his way to you with them now. What's that you say? You repeat that, snapped D. Medale suddenly, and I'll take them from under your nose again before morning. Ah, that is better. Good night, Mr. Maddon. D. Medale hung up the receiver and shoved Burton toward the door. Now then, Burton, we'll get out of here, and the sooner you reach Fifth Avenue and Mr. Maddon's house, the better. No, not that way. They had reached the hall and Burton had turned toward the side door that opened on the alleyway. Whoever they were who settled their last account with Isaac may still be watching. They have nothing against anyone else, but they know someone was in here at the time, and if the police are clever enough ever to get on their track, they might find it very convenient to be able to say who was in the room when Isaac was murdered. There is nothing to show, since Isaac so abledingly opened the window for them that the shot was fired through the window and not from the inside of the room. And even if they have already taken to their heels, Jimmy Dale was leading Burton up the stairs again as he talked. It might prove exceedingly convenient for us if some pass-by should happen to recollect that he saw two men of our general appearance leaving the premises. Now keep close and follow me. They passed the door of Isaac's den, turned down a narrow corridor that led to the rear of the house. Jimmy Dale guiding unerringly, working from the mental map of the house that the toxin had drawn for him, descended another short flight of stairs that gave on to the kitchen, crossed the kitchen, and Jimmy Dale opened a back door. He paused here for a moment to listen, then cautioning Burton to be silent, moved on again across a small backyard and threw a gate into a lane that ran at right angles to the alleyway by which both had entered the house. And a minute later they were crouched against a building, a half-block away where the lane intersected the cross-street. Here Jimmy Dale peered out cautiously. There was no one in sight. He touched Burton's shoulder and pointed down the street. That's your way, Burton. Mind's the other. Hurry while you've got the chance. Good night. Burton's hand reached out, caught Jimmy Dale's, and rang it. God bless you, he said huskily. Aye! And Jimmy Dale pushed him out onto the street. Burton's steps receded on the sidewalk. Jimmy Dale still crouched against the wall. The steps grew fainter in the distance and died finally away. Jimmy Dale straightened up, slipped the mask from his face to his pocket, stepped out on the street, and five minutes later was passing through the noisy bedlam of the Hungarian restaurant on his way to the front door and his car. Soné le toxin. Jimmy Dale was saying softly to himself, I wonder what she'll do when she finds I've got the ring. End of part one, chapter seven C, The Thief, The Conclusion from The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard. Read by Loesch Rulander. The toxin. By neither act, sign, nor word had she evidenced the slightest interest in that ring, and yet she must know, she certainly must know, that it was now in his possession. Jimmy Dale was disappointed. Somehow he had counted more than he had cared to admit on developments from that ring. He pulled a little viciously at his cigarette, as he stared out of the St. James Club window. That was how long ago? Ten days? Yes, this would be the eleventh. Eleven days now, and no word from her. Eleven days since that 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 would had come to be his prerogative in the newspapers. The front page, with three-inch type, recounting some new exploit of that mysterious criminal, the Gray Seal, 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 that had inundated New York, and of which, for once, the Gray Seal was not the storm-center, but rather, for the moment, forgotten. He drew back from the window, and, settling himself again in the big leather lounging chair, resumed the perusal of the evening paper. His eye fell on what was common to every addition now, a crime editorial, and the paper crackled suddenly under the long, slim, tapering fingers, so carefully nurtured, whose sensitive tips a hundred times had made mockery of the human ingenuity squandered on the intricate mechanism of safes and vaults. No, he was wrong. The Gray Seal had not been forgotten. We should not be surprised, wrote the editor virulently, to discover at the bottom of these abominable atrocities that the guiding spirit, in fact, was the Gray Seal. They are quite worthy even of his diabolical disregard for the laws of God and man.  There was nothing then, nothing too vile, that in the public's eyes could not logically be associated with the Gray Seal, even this. A series of the most cold-blooded, callous murders and robberies, work on the face of it of a well-organized band of thugs, brutal, insensate, little better than fiends, though clever enough so far to have evaded capture, clever enough, indeed, to have kept the police still staggering and gasping after a clue for one murder while another was in the very act of being committed. The Gray Seal, what exquisite irony, and yet, after all, the papers were not wholly to blame for what they said. He had invited much of it. Seeming crimes of the Gray Seal had apparently been genuine beyond any question of doubt, as he had intended them to appear, as in the very essence of their purpose they had to be. Yes, he had invited much. He and she together, the toxin and himself. He, Jimmy Dale, millionaire, clubman, whose name for generations in New York had been the family pride, was wanted as the Gray Seal for so many crimes that he had lost track of them himself. But from any one of which let the identity of the Gray Seal be once solved, there was and could be no escape. What exquisite irony, yet full, too, of the most deadly consequences. Once more, Jimmy Dale's eye sought the paper, and this time scant the headlines of the first page. Brutal murder of Mill Paymaster. The crime wave still at its height. Herman Rossler found dead near his car. Assassins escape with twenty thousand dollars. Jimmy Dale read on, and as he read there came again that angry set to his lips. The details were not pleasant. Herman Rossler, the Paymaster of the Martindale Kensington Mills, whose plant was on the Hudson, had gone that morning in his runabout to the nearest town, three miles away, for the monthly payroll. He had secured the money from the bank, a sum of twenty-odd thousand dollars, and had started back with it for the mill. At first, it being broad daylight and a well-frequented road, his non-appearance cost no apprehension. But as early afternoon came, and there was still no sign of Rossler, the mill management took alarm. Discovering that he had left the bank for the return journey at a few minutes before eleven, and that nothing had been seen of him at his home, the police were notified. Followed then several hours of fruitless search, until finally, with the whole countryside aroused, and the efforts of the police augmented by private search parties, the car was found in a thicket at the edge of a cross-road, some four miles back from the river, and a little way from the car, the body of Rossler, dead, the man's head crushed in where it had been fiendishly battered by some blunt heavy object. There was no clue, no one could be found who had seen the car on the cross-road. The murderer, or murderers, and the twenty-odd thousand dollars in cash had disappeared, leaving no trace behind. There were several columns of this, which Jimmy Dale skimmed through quickly, but at the end he stared for a long time at the last paragraph. Somehow, strange to relate, the paper had neglected to turn at sob artists loose, and the few words added almost as though they were an afterthought, for once rang true and full of pathos in their very simplicity. At the Rossler home, where Mrs. Rossler was prostrated, two little tots of five and seven, too young to understand, had gravely received the reporter and told him that some bad man had hurt their daddy. Jimmy Dale lowered his paper. A club attendant was standing before him, respectfully extending a silver-car tray. From the man Jimmy Dale's eyes fixed on a white envelope on the tray. One glass was enough. It was hers, that letter. The toxin again. His brain seemed suddenly to be a fire, and he could feel his pulse quicken. The blood began to pound and fierce throbs at his heart. Life and death lay in that white, innocent-looking, unaddressed envelope. Danger, peril! It was always life and death, for those were the stakes for which the toxin played. Master of many things, Jimmy Dale was, most of all, master of himself. Not a muscle of his face moved. He reached nonchalantly for the letter. Thank you, said Jimmy Dale. The man bowed and started away. Jimmy Dale laid the envelope on the arm of the lounging chair. The man had reached the door when Jimmy Dale stopped him. Oh, by the way, said Jimmy Dale languidly. Where did this come from? Your chauffeur, sir, replied the other. Your chauffeur gave it to the whole porter a moment ago, sir. Thank you, said Jimmy Dale again. The door closed. Jimmy Dale glanced around the room. It was the caution of habit, that glance. 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 up the envelope, tore it open, took out the folded sheets inside, and began to read. At the first words he leaned forward, suddenly tense in his chair. 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 Jimmy Dale. It was a call to arms such as the gray seal had never received before, such as the toxin had never made before. And if it were true, it—true—he laughed aloud a little gratingly— true had the toxin astoundingly, unbelievably mystifying as were the means by which she acquired 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 outside there ever since dinner. Jimmy Dale, for the first time since the first communication that he had ever received from the toxin, did not immediately destroy her letter now. He slipped it into his pocket, and stepped quickly from the room. In the cloakroom downstairs, he secured his hat and overcoat, and, though it was a warm evening, put on the ladder, since he was in evening clothes, then walked leisurely out of the club. At the curb, Benson, the chauffeur, sprang from his seat, and touching his cap, opened the door of a luxurious limousine. Jimmy Dale shook his head. I shall not keep you waiting any longer, Benson, he said. You may take the car home and put it up. I shall probably be late tonight. Very good, sir," replied the chauffeur. You sent in a letter a moment or so ago, Benson? Observed Jimmy Dale casually, opening his cigarette case. Yes, sir," said Benson. I hope I didn't do wrong, sir. He said it was important, and that you were to have it at once. He? Jimmy Dale was lighting his cigarette now. A boy, sir, Benson amplified. I couldn't get anything out of him. He just said he'd been told to give it to me, and tell me to see that you got it at once. I hope, sir, I haven't—not at all, Benson, said Jimmy Dale pleasantly. It's quite all right. Good night, Benson. Good night, sir," Benson answered, climbing back to his seat.  A queer little smile that still held there even after he himself had started briskly along the avenue in a downtown direction. It was invariably the same, always the same. The letters came unexpectedly when least looked for, now by this means, now by that, but always in a manner that precluded the slightest possibility of tracing them to their source.  Benson, for instance, that the man was absolutely trustworthy, or else she 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 know him in the role he was going to play tonight. That, at least, was one thing that surely she did not know about him—the role in which, many times, for weeks on end, he had devoted himself body and soul in an attempt to solve the mystery with which she surrounded herself. The role, too, that often enough had been a bulwark of safety to him when hard-pressed by the police. The role out of which he had so carefully, so painstakingly created a now-recognized and well-known character of the underworld—the role of Larry the Bat. Jimmy Dale turned from Fifth Avenue into Broadway, continued on down Broadway across to the Bowery, kept along the Bowery for several more blocks, and finally headed east into the dimly-lighted Cross Street on which the sanctuary was located. And now Jimmy Dale became cautious in his movements. As he approached the black alleyway that flanked the miserable tenement, he glanced sharply behind and about him, and at the alleyway itself, without pause, but with a curious lightning-like side-stip—no longer Jimmy Dale now, but the gray seal—he disappeared from the street and was lost in the deep shadows of the building. In a moment he was at the side door, listening for any sound from within. None had ever seen or met the lodger of the first floor, either ascending or descending, except in the familiar character of Larry the Bat. He opened the door, closed it behind him, and in the utter blackness went noiselessly up the stairs, stairs so rickety that it seemed a mouse's tread alone would have set them creaking. There seemed an art in the play of Jimmy Dale's every muscle—in the movements, lithe, balanced, quick, absolutely silent. On the first landing he stopped before another door. There was a faint click of a key turning in the lock, and then this door, too, closed behind him. Sounded the faint click of the key as it turned again, and Jimmy Dale drew a long breath, stepped across the room to assure himself that the window-blind was down, and lighted the gas jet. A yellow murky flame spurred it up, pitifully weak, almost as though it were ashamed of its disreputable surroundings. Dirt, disorder, squalor, the evidence of low living testified eloquently enough to anyone—the police, for instance, in times past inquisitive—until they were faturously content with the belief that they knew the occupant for what he was, that the place was quite in keeping with its tenant. A mute prototype, as it were, of Larry the Bat, the dope fiend. For a little space Jimmy Dale, immaculate in his evening clothes, stood in the center of the miserable room, his dark eyes, keen, alert, critical, sweeping comprehensively over every object about him, the position of a chair, of a cracked drinking-glass on a broken-legged table, of an old coat thrown with apparent carelessness on the floor at the foot of the bed, of a broken bottle that had innocently strewn some sort of white powder close to the threshold, inviting unwary foot-tracks across the floor. And then, taking out the toxin's letter, he laid it upon the table, placed what money he had in his pockets beside it, and began rapidly to remove his clothes. The sanctuary had not been invaded since his last visit there. He turned back the oil cloth in the far corner of the room, took up the piece of loose flooring, which, however, strangely enough, fitted so closely as to give no sign of its existence, even should it inadvertently, by some curious visitor again, be trod upon, and from the aperture beneath, lifted out a bundle of clothes and a small box. Undressed now, he carefully folded the clothes he had taken off, laid them under the flooring, and began to dress again, his wardrobe supplied by the bundle he had taken out in exchange, an old pair of shoes, the laces broken, mismaded socks, patched trousers, frayed at the bottoms, a soiled shirt, collarless, open at the neck.  But the hardness, the grim menace that now grew into the dominant characteristic of his features, was not due to the stain alone. Dear philanthropic crook, his eyes were on the toxins letter that lay before him. He read on, for once, even to Jimmy Dale's keen, facile mind, a first reading had failed to convey the full significance of which he had written. It was too amazing, almost beyond belief, the series of crimes, rampant for the past few weeks, at which the community had stood aghast, the brutal murder of Rossler, but a few hours old, lay bare before his eyes. It was all there, all of it, the details, the hellish cleverness, the personnel even of the thugs, all, everything, except the proof.   The words seemed to leap out at him from the white page in red dancing lines.  Jimmy Dale finished the second reading of the letter, read it again for the third time, then tore it into tiny fragments, his fingers delved into the box again, and the transformation of Jimmy Dale, member of New York's most exclusive social set, into a low, vicious-featured denizen of the underworld, went on. A little wax applied skillfully behind the ears, in the nostrils, and under the upper lip. End of Part 1 Chapter 8A Part 1 Chapter 8B of The Adventures of Jimmy Dale This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard Reading by Mary Rody Part 1 The Man in the Case Chapter 8B The Man Higher Up Continued It was all there, all except the proof, and the proof. He laughed aloud suddenly, unpleasantly. There seemed something sardonic in it. I, more than that, all that was grim and irony. The proof in Stungeist's own writing, sworn to, before witnesses, in the presence of a notary. The text of the document, of course, unknown to both witnesses and notary. Evidence, absolute and final, that would be admitted in any court, for Stungeist was a lawyer and would see to that, was in Stungeist's own safe, for Stungeist's own protection.  It was amazing, without parallel, in the history of crime, and yet ingenious, clever, full of the craft and cunning that had built up the Scheister Lawyer's reputation below the deadline. Jimmy Dale's lips were curiously thin now. So it was Stungeist, a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde with the vengeance. He knew Stungeist, not personally, not by the reputation Stungeist held, low even as that was, among his brother-members of the profession. But as the man was known for what he really was among the crooks and criminals of the underworld, where, in that strange underground exchange, whispered confidences past between those whose common enemy was the law, where Larry the Bat himself was trusted in the innermost circles. Stungeist was a power in the Badlands. There were few among that unholy community that Stungeist, at one time or another, in one way or another, had not rescued from the clutches of the law, resorting to any trick or cunning, but with perjury that he could handle, like the master of it that he was, employed as the most common weapon of defense for his clients, provided he were paid well enough for it. The man had become more than the attorney for the crime world. He had become part of it. Cunning, shrewd, crafty, consciousness, cold-blooded. That was Stungeist. The foremen features of the man pictured themselves in Jimmy Dale's mind. The six-foot muscular frame that was invariably clothed in attire of the most fashionable cut. The thin lips with their oily, plausible smile. The straight black hair that straggled into pinpoint. Little black eyes, the dark face with its high cheekbones, which, with the pronounced aquiline nose, and the persistent rumored that he was a quarter-caste, had let the underworld, prejudiced always in favor of a moniker, to dub the man, the Indian chief. Jimmy Dale laughed again, still unpleasantly. So Stungeist had taken the 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 it before. The irony of it lay in the fact that at last he had been too clever, overstepped himself in his own cleverness. That was all. It was Australian Ike, the Mope, and Clary Dean, that Stungeist had gathered around him, the toxin had said, and there were none worse in Larry the Bat's wide range of acquaintanceship than those three. Stungeist had made himself master of Australian Ike, the Mope, and Clary Dean, and he had driven them a little too hard on the division of the spoils, and laughed at them, and cracked the whip much after the fashion that the trainer in the cage handles the growling beasts around him. A dozen of the crimes that had appalled and staggered New York, they had committed under his leadership, and then it seemed they had quarreled furiously. The three pitted against Stungeist, threatening him, demanding a more equitable share of the proceeds. None was better aware than Stungeist that threats from men of their caliber were likely to result in a grim aftermath, and Stungeist yesterday, the toxin said, had answered them as no other man than Stungeist would either have thought of or have dared to do. One by one, at separate times, covering the other with the revolver, Stungeist had permitted them to read a document that was addressed to the district attorney. It was a confession, complete in every detail, of every crime the four together had committed, implicating Stungeist as fully and unreservedly as it did the other three. It required no commentary. If anything happened to Stungeist, a stab in the dark, for instance, a bullet from some dark alleyway, a blackjack deftly wielded, as only Australian Ike the Mope or Clarideen knew how to wield it, the document automatically became a death sentence for Australian Ike the Mope and Clarideen. It was very simple, and evidently it had been effective, as witnessed the renewal of their operations in the murder of Rossler that afternoon. Fear and avarice had both probably played their part. Fear of the man who would with such consummate nerve fling his life into the balance to turn the tables upon them while he jeered at them. Avarice that prompted them to get what they could out of Stungeist's brains and leadership, and to be satisfied with what they could get, since they could get no more. Satisfied? Jimmy Dale shook his head. No, that was hardly the word. Cowed, perhaps, for the moment, would be better. But afterward, with a document like that in existence, when they would never be safe for an instant. Well, beasts in the cages had been known to get the better of the man with the whip, and beasts were gentle things compared with Australian Ike the Mope and Clarideen. Someday they would reverse the tables on the Indian chief, if they could, and if they couldn't, it would not be for the lack of trying. There would be another act in that drama of the house divided before the curtain fell, and there would be a sort of grim poetic justice in it. A temptation, almost, to let the play work itself out to its own inevitable conclusion, only Jimmy Dale, the final touches given to his features, stood up, and his hands clenched suddenly fiercely. It was not just the man higher up alone. They were the other three as well, the whole four of them, all of them, crimes without number at their door, brutal, fiendish acts, damnable outrages, murder, to answer for, with which the public now was beginning to connect the name of the grey seal, the grey seal. Jimmy Dale's hands, whose delicate fingers were artfully grime and blackened now beneath the nails, clenched still tighter, and then, with a quick shrug of his shoulders, a thinning of the firmly compressed lips, 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 box under the flooring.  The flooring carefully replaced, the oil cloth spread back again, and then, pulling a slouch hat well down over his eyes, he reached up to turn off the gas. For an instant his hand held there, while his eyes, sweeping around the apartment, 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 creature of the underworld, alias Jimmy Dale, the lionized of clubs, the matrimonial target of exclusive drawings, closed the door of the sanctuary behind him, shuffled down the stairs, shuffled out into the lane, and shuffled along the street toward the Bowery. A policeman on the corner accosted him familiarly. Hello, Larry! grinned the officer. Hello! returned Jimmy Dale affably, through the sight of his mouth. Fine night, ain't it? and shuffled on along the street. And now Jimmy Dale began to hurry, still with that shuffling tread, but covering the ground nevertheless with amazing celerity. He had lost no time since receiving the toxins letter, it was true, but for all that it was now after ten o'clock. Stangeist's house was dark that evening, she had said, meaning that the occupants, Stangeist as well as whatever servants there might be, for Stangeist had no family, were out, the servants in town for a theater or picture show probably, and Stangeist himself as yet not back, presumably from the Rossler affair. The stub of an old cigar, unlighted, shifted with the sudden, savage twist of the lips from one side of Jimmy Dale's mouth to the other. There was need for haste. There was no telling when Stangeist might get back. As for the servants, that did not matter so much. Servants in suburban homes had a market affinity for last trains. Jimmy Dale boarded a crosstown car, affected a transfer, and in a quarter of an hour after leaving the sanctuary, was huddled an inoffensive heap, like a tired out working man, in a corner seat of a long island train. From here there was only a short run ahead of him, and twenty minutes later, descending from the train at Forest Hills, he had 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 the station, quite by itself, and set well back from the road. Jimmy Dale could have found it with his eyes blindfolded. The toxins directions had lacked none of their usual explicit minuteness. The road was quite deserted. Jimmy Dale met no one. Even in the houses that he passed, the lights were in nearly every instance already out. Something, merciless in its rage, swept suddenly over Jimmy Dale, as unbidden of its own volition, the last paragraph he had read in that evening's paper, began to repeat itself over and over again in his mind. The two little kitties. It seemed as though he could see them standing there, and from Jimmy Dale's slips, not given to profanity, there came a bitter oath. It might possibly be that even if he were successful in what was before him tonight, the authors of the Rossler murder would never be known. That confession of Stangeist's was written prior to what had happened that afternoon, and there would be no mention, naturally, of Rossler. And for a moment, that seemed to Jimmy Dale the one thing paramount to all others, the one thing that was vital. Then he shook his head and laughed out shortly. After all, it did not matter. Whether Stangeist and the blood-wolves he had gathered around him paid the penalty specifically for one particular crime, or for another, could make little difference. They would pay, just as surely, just as certainly, once that paper was in his possession. Jimmy Dale was counting the houses as he passed. They were more infrequent now, farther apart. Stangeist was no fool, not the fool that he would appear to be, for keeping a document like that, once he had had the temerity to execute it, in his own safe. For, in a day or two, the toxin had hinted at this. After holding it over the heads of Australian Ike, the mope, and Clary Dean again, to drive the force of it a little deeper home, he would undoubtedly destroy it. And the supposition that it was still in existence would have equally the same effect on the minds of the other three. Stangeist was certainly alive to the peril that he ran with such a thing in his possession. Only the peril had not appealed to him as imminent, either from the three thugs with whom he had allied himself, or much less from anyone else. That was all. Jimmy Dale halted by a low ornamental stone fence, some three feet high, and stood there for a moment, glancing about him. This was Stangeist's house. He could just make out the building as it loomed up a shadowy, irregular shape, perhaps two hundred yards back from the fence. The house was quite dark, not a light showed in any window. Jimmy Dale sat down casually on the fence, looked carefully again, up and down the road. Then, swinging his legs over, quick now in every action, he dropped to the other side, and stole silently across the grass to the rear of the house. Here he stopped again, reached up to a window that was about on a level with his shoulders, and tested its fastenings. The window, it was the window of Stangeist's private sanctum, according to the plan in her letter, was securely locked. Jimmy Dale's hands went into his pocket, and the black silk mask was slipped over his face. He listened intently.  A minute passed, two of them. Again Jimmy Dale listened. There was not a sound save the night sounds. The light breeze whispering through the branches of the trees. The far-off rumble of a train. The whir of insects. The horse croaking of a frog from some nearby creek or pond. The window sash was raised an inch, another, and gradually to the top. Like a shadow, Jimmy Dale pulled himself up to the sill, and poised there, his hands parted the heavy porters that hung within. It was too dark to distinguish even a single object in the room. He lowered himself to the floor, and slipped cautiously between the porters. From somewhere in the house, a clock began to strike. Jimmy Dale counted the strokes. Eleven o'clock. It was getting late. Too late. Stan Geist was likely to be back any moment. The flashlight in Jimmy Dale's hand now circled the room with its little round white ray, lingering an instant in a queer inquisitive sort of way here and there on this object and that, and went out. Jimmy Dale nodded, the flat desk in the center of the floor, the safe in the corner by the rear wall, the position of everything in the room, even to the chairs, was photographed on his mind. He stepped from the porters to the safe, and the flashlight played again, this time reflecting back from the glistening, nickled knobs. Jimmy Dale's lips tightened. It was a small safe, almost ludicrously small. But to such height as the art of safe design had been carried, that design was embodied in the one before him. Type K-428 Colby, muttered Jimmy Dale. A nasty little beggar, at its eleven o'clock now. I'd use soup for once, if it weren't that it would put Stan Geist wise, and give him a chance to make his getaway before the district attorney got the nippers on the four of them. The light went out. Jimmy Dale dropped to his knees, and while his left hand passed swiftly, tentatively over the dials and handle, he rubbed the fingers of his right hand rapidly to and fro over the carpet. Wonderful fingertips were those of Jimmy Dale, sensitive to an abnormal degree, and now tingling with the friction, the nerves throbbing at the skin surface. They closed in a light, delicate touch upon the knob of the dial, and Jimmy Dale's ear pressed close against the face of the safe. Time passed. The silence grew heavy, seemed to palpitate through the room. Then a deep breath, half like a sigh, half like a fluttering sob of a strong man taxed to the uttermost of his endurance, came from Jimmy Dale, and his left hand swept away the sweat beads that had spurred it to his forehead. Eight, thirteen, twenty-two, whispered Jimmy Dale. There was a click, a low metallic thud as the bolt slid back, and the door swung open. And now the flashlight again, searching the mechanism of the inner door, then darkness once more. Five minutes, ten minutes went by. The clock struck again, and the single 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 nest of pigeonholes and little drawers. The pigeonholes were cramped with papers, as presumably, too, were the drawers. Jimmy Dale sucked in his breath. He had already been there well over half an hour. Every minute now, every second, was counting against him. And to search that mass of papers before Stanguy's returned was, ah, it came in a fierce little ejaculation from Jimmy Dale. From the center pigeonhole, almost the first paper he had touched, he drew a long, sealed envelope, and at a single swift glance had read the inscription upon it, written in long hand, to the District Attorney, New York City, important, urgent. The words in the corners were underscored three times. Swiftly, deftly, Jimmy Dale's hands rolled the rounded end of one of his collection of the legal instruments under the flap of the envelope, turned the sheets over, and drew out the folded document inside. There were eight sheets of legal fool's cap, neatly fastened together at the top left-hand corner with green tape. He opened them out, read a few words here and there, and turned the pages hurriedly over to scrutinize the last one, and nodded grimly. Three witnesses had testified to the signature of Stanguy's, and a notary seal accompanied by the usual legal formula was duly affixed. Jimmy Dale slipped the document into his pocket, and, with the envelope in his hand, moved to the desk. He opened first one drawer, and then another, and finally, discovering a pile of blank fool's cap, took out four sheets, folded them, and placed them in the envelope, sealing the flap of the ladder again. That it did not seal very well now brought a quizzical twitch to Jimmy Dale's lips. Sealed or unsealed, perhaps it made little difference. But for all that, he was not through with it yet. Apart from bringing the four to justice, there was, after all, a chance to vindicate the grey seal in this matter, at least, and repudiate the newspaper theory which the public, to whom the grey seal was already a monster of iniquity, would seize upon with avidity. There was no further need of light now. Jimmy Dale replaced the flashlight in his pocket, took out the thin metal case, opened it, and with the tiny pair of tweezers that likewise nestled there, lifted out one of the grey, diamond-shaped paper seals. There was no question but that, once under arrest, Stanguy's effects would be immediately and thoroughly surged by the authorities. Jimmy Dale's smile from quizzical became ironic. It would afford the police another little bewildering reminder of the grey seal, and give carothers, good ol' carothers, of the Morning News Argus, so innocently ignorant that the grey seal was his old college pal, yet the one editor of them all who was not forever barking and helping at the grey seal's heels, a chance to vindicate himself a little too. Jimmy Dale moistened the adhesive side of the grey seal, and still mindful of tell-tale fingerprints, laid it with the tweezers on the flap of the envelope, and pressed it firmly into place with his elbow. And then suddenly, every faculty instantly on the alert, he snatched up the envelope from the desk and listened. Was it imagination, a trick of nerves, or—no, there it was again, a footfall on the gravel walk at the front of the house. The sound became louder, clearer, two footfalls instead of one. It was Stanguy's, and somebody was with him. In an instant Jimmy Dale was across the room, and kneeling again before the safe. His fingers were flying now. The envelope shot back into the pigeonhole from which he had taken it, the inner door of the safe closed silently and swiftly. A dry chuckle came from Jimmy Dale's lips. It was just like fiction, just precisely time enough to have accomplished what he had come for before he was interrupted, not a second more or less, the villain foiled at the psychological moment. The key was rattling in the front door now. They were in the hall. He could hear Stanguy's voice. They came a dull glow from the hallway, following the click of an electric light switch. The outer door of the safe swung shut. The bolts slid into place, the dial whirled under Jimmy Dale's fingers. It was only a step to the portiers, the open window, and escape. He straightened up, stepped back, the portiers closed behind him, and the chuckle died on Jimmy Dale's lips. He was trapped, caught without so much as a corner in which to turn. Stanguy's was even then coming into the room, and outside, darkly outlined, two forms stood just beneath the window. Instinctively, quick as a flash, Jimmy Dale crouched below the sill. Who were they? What did it mean? Questions swept in swift sequence through his brain. Had they seen him? It would be very dark against the background of the portiers, but yet, if they were watching, he drew a breath of relief. He had not been seen. Their voices reached him in low guarded whispers. Say, use Ike, pipe it. There's a window open in the snitch's room. Come on, we'll get in there. It'll make the hair stand up on the back of his neck for a starter. Oh, forget it, replied another voice. Can the theater stunt? Clareed leave the front door unfastened, don't he? And they'll be in there in a minute now. What you want to do? Crab the game? You might hear us and fix Clareed before we had a chance, the skinny old fox. And here's the light now, see? Bait it and your toes for the front of the house. The room was flooded with light. Through the portiers, the Jimmy Dale parted by the barest fraction of an inch. He could see Stanguy's and another man, a thick-sit, ugly-faced looking customer. Clareed Dean, according to that brief, whispered colloquy that he had heard outside. He looked again through the window. The two dark forms had disappeared now, but they had disappeared just a few seconds too late. With the two other men now in the room, and one of them so close that Jimmy Dale could almost have reached out and touched him, it was impossible to get through the window without being detected when the slightest sound would attract instant attention and equal the instant suspicion. It was a chance to be taken only as a last resort. Jimmy Dale's face grew hard, as his fingers closed around his automatic, and drew the weapon from his pocket. It was all plain enough that last act in the drama which he had speculatively anticipated was being staged with little loss of time, and in a grim sort of way the thought flashed across his mind that perilous as his own position was, Stanguy's at the moment was an even greater peril than himself. Australian Ike, the Mope, and Clareed Dean, given the chance, and they seem to have made that chance now, were not likely to deal in half measures. Clareed Dean had dropped into a chair beside the desk, and the Mope and Australian Ike were creeping around to the front door. The parting in the porters widened a little more, a very little more, slowly, imperceptibly, until Jimmy Dale, by the simple expedient of moving his head, could obtain an unobstructed view of the entire room. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibberVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale, by Frank L. Packard. Reading by Mary Rody. Part 1 The Man in the Case. Chapter 8C. The Man Higher Up. Concluded. Stanguy's tossed a bag he had been carrying on the desk, pulled up a chair opposite to Clareed Dean, and sat down. Both men were side-faced to Jimmy Dale. You tell the boys, said Stanguy's abruptly, to fade away after this for a while.  That sort of thing isn't necessary. That's the kind of stunt that gets the public sore. The man was dead enough as it was, see? Sure, Clareed Dean's ejaculation was a grunt. Stanguy's opened the bag, dumped the contents on the desk, pile after pile of banknotes, the payroll of the Martindale Kensington Mills. Some hall, observed Clareed Dean with the horse chuckle. The paper said over twenty thousand. You can't always believe what the papers say, returned Stanguy's curtly, and taking a scribbling pad from the desk began to check up the packages. Clareed Dean's cigar had gone out. He rolled the short stub in his mouth, and leaned forward. The bills were evidently just as they had been delivered to the murdered paymaster at the bank, done up with little narrow paper bands in packages of one hundred notes each. Save for a small bundle of loose bills, which latter, with the rolls of silver, Stanguy's swept to one side of the desk. Packaged by package, Stanguy's went on jotting the amounts down on the pad. Nicks growled Clareed Dean suddenly. Cut that out! Them spivers in that wad. Make that five hundred instead of one. I'm under ya. Mistakes at Stanguy's swavly changing the figures with his pencil. You're pretty wide awake for this time of night, aren't you, Clareed? Oh, I don't know, responded Clareed Dean gruffly. Not so very. Stanguy's finished with the packages, picked up the loose bills, and, with a short laugh, tossed them into the bag and followed them with the rolls of silver. He pushed the bag toward Clareed Dean. That's a little extra for you, he said. The trouble with you fellows is that you don't know when you're well off, but the sooner you find it out the better, unless you want another lesson like yesterday. He made the addition on the pad. Fifteen thousand eight hundred dollars, he announced softly, that's seven thousand nine hundred for the three of you to divide, less five hundred from the mope. Clareed Dean's eyes narrowed. His hands were on his knees, hidden by the desk. There's more than twenty there, he said sullenly, and drew a match across the under-edge of the desk with the long crackling noise. Stanguy's face lost its suavity. A snarl curled his lips. But about to reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead. His head turned sharply toward the door. What's that? he said hoarsely. It's not the servants. They wouldn't dare to— Stanguy's words ended in a gulp. He was staring into the muzzle of a heavy-calibered revolver that Clareed Dean had jerked up from under the desk.  It happened then almost before Jimmy Dale could grasp the details, before even Clareed Dean himself could interfere. The door burst open. The two men rushed in, and one with the bound flung himself at Stanguy's. The man's hand, grasping a clubbed revolver, rose in the air, descended on Stanguy's head, and Stanguy's went down in a limp heap, crashed into a chair, and slid from the chair with a thud to the floor. There was an oath from Clareed Dean.  Blast you, Mope! he snarled. Your two blame fly!  Ah, what's the matter with yous?  Australian Ike, who had entered the room with him, pulled him back. Forget it, he flung out.  Forget it. The Mope glared from one to the other, then shook his fist at Stanguy's on the floor.  What's the use of waiting all night? We was to bump him off anyway, wasn't we? That's what you said yourselves. Cause what was there stopping writing out another paper if we didn't fix him for keeps? That's all right, rejoined Clareedine. But that's the second act, you bonehead. See? We ain't got the paper yet, have we? Say, take a look at that safe. It's easier to scare him into opening it than to crack it, ain't it? Jimmy Dale, from his crouched position, began to rise to his feet slowly, making but the slightest movement at a time, cautious of the least sound. His lips were like a thin line, his fingers tightly pressed over the automatic in his hand. There was not room for him between the portiers and the window, and do what he could, the hangings bulged a little. Let one of the three notice that, or inadvertently brush against the portiers, 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 three faces that leered into his, then dawning intelligence came, and his face, that had been white before, took on a pasty grayish pallor. Ew, the three of you, he mumbled. Ew, the three of you. What's this mean? And then Clarideen laughed in a low, brutal way. What do you think it means? We want that paper, and we want a damn quicksee. Do you think we was going to stand for having a trip to Sing Sing and the wirechair dangling over our heads? Stangeist closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something of the old-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 use kid yourself, retorted Clarideen. Do you think we're fools? This ain't like it was yesterday, see? We get the paper this time, so there won't nothing happen to us. You come across with it blasted quick now, or the mop will give you another on the bane that'll put you to sleep for keeps. The blood was running down Stangeist's face. He wiped it away from his eyes. It's not here, he said innocently. It's in my box in the safety deposit vaults. Aw, blurted out Australian Ike, pushing suddenly forward. Use can't work that crawl on. Cut it out, Ike, snapped Clarideen. I'm running this. So it's in the vaults, eh? He shoved his face towards Stangeist's. Yes, said Stangeist easily. See, I was looking for something like this. Clarideen's fist clenched. You lie, he choked. The mop here was the last of us you showed the paper to yesterday afternoon, and the vaults was closed then, and you ain't been there today, cause you've been watched. That's why we fixed it for tonight, after the divvy that you've just tried to do us on again, cause we knew you had it here. I tell you it's not here, said Stangeist evenly. You lie, said Clarideen again. It's in that safe. The mop heard you tell the girl in your office that if anything happened to you she was to wise up the district attorney that there was a paper in your safe at home firm that was important. Now then, you beat it over to that safe and open it up. We'll give you a minute to do it in. The paper's not there, I tell you, said Stangeist once more. That's all right, submitted Clarideen grimly. There's a quarter of that minute gone. I won't, Stangeist flashed out violently. That's all right, repeated Clarideen. There's a half of that minute gone. The man's face was twitching now, moisture beginning to ooze from his forehead, as the callous brutality of the scowling faces seemed to get him, and then he lurched suddenly forward in his chair. My God! he cried out, a ring of terror in his voice. What do you mean to do? You'll pay for it. They'll get you. The servants will be back in a minute. Two skirts, steered Clarideen. We ain't going to run away from them. If they comes before we goes, we'll fix them. That minute's up. Stangeist licked his lips with his tongue. Suppose I refuse, he said hoarsely. You can suit yourself, said Clarideen with a vicious grin. We know the paper's there, and we get it before we leave here, see? You can take your choice.  This is nitroglycerin, and we opens it for you with this. Only if we does the job, we does it proper.  There was a short raucous guffaw from the mope. Stangeist turned a drawn face toward the man, stared at him, and stared in a miserable way at the other two in turn. He licked his lips again. None was in a better position than himself to know that there would be neither scruples nor hesitancy to interfere with carrying out the threat. Suppose, he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Suppose I open the safe. What then, afterward? We ain't got the safe open yet, countered Clarideen uncompromisingly, and we ain't got no more time to fool over it either.   He knelt before it and began to manipulate the dial, while the others crowded around behind him. The mope was fingering his revolver again, club fashion. Australian Ike's elbow just grazed the portiers, and Jimmy Dale flattened himself against the window, holding his breath, a smile on his lips that was mirthless, deadly cold. The end was not far off now, and then what? Stangeist had the outer door of the safe open now, and now the inner door swung back.  My God! he screamed out. What? What's this? Clarideen snatched the envelope from him.  He ripped the envelope open frantically, and like a man stunned, gazed at the four blank sheets while the color left his face. It's gone! he cried out hoarsely. Gone! there was a burst of oaths from Australian Ike. Gone! then were nipped to lot of us. The mope's face was like a maniac's as he whirled on Stangeist. Sure! he croaked, but use, get yours first, use, with a cry, Stangeist, to elude the blow, ducked blindly backward, into the portiers, and with the rip and tear the hangings were wrenched apart. It came instantaneously, a yell of mingled surprise and fury from the three. The crash and spit of Jimmy Dale's revolver as he fired one shot at the floor to stop their rush. Then he flung himself at the window, threw it, and dropped, sprawling to the ground. A stream of flame cut the darkness above him, a bullet whistled by his head, another and another. He was on his feet, quick as a cat, and running close alongside of the wall of the house. He heard a thud behind him, still another, and yet a third. They were dropping through the window after him. Came another shot, an angry hum of the bullet closer than before, then the pound of racing feet. Jimmy Dale swung around the corner of the house, running at top speed, something that was like a hot iron suddenly burned and seared along the side of his head just above the ear. He reeled, staggered, recovered himself, and dashed on. It nauseated him, that stinging in his head, and all at once seemed to be draining his strength away. The shouts, the shots, the running feet became like a curious buzzing in his ears. It seemed 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 least make a fight for his life on the other side. Red streak swam before Jimmy Dale's eyes. The wall was such a long way off. A yard or two was a very long way more to go. The weakness seemed to be creeping up now even to numb his brain. No, here was the wall. They hadn't hit him again. He laughed in a demented way, and rolled his body over, and fell to the other side. Jimmy, the cry seemed to reach some inner consciousness, revive him, send the blood whipping through his veins. That voice. It was her, hers, the toxin. There was an automobile, engine racing, standing there in the road. 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. Jimmy, Jimmy, quick! Panting, gasping, he half fell into the tonneau. The car leaped forward, yells filled the air. But only one thing was dominant in Jimmy Dale's reeling brain now. He pulled himself up to his feet, and leaned over the back of the seat, reaching for the slim figure that was bent over the wheel.   A bullet split the back panel of the car. Little spurting flames were dancing out from the roadway behind. Are you mad? She shouted back at him. Let me steer. Do you want them to hit me?  No, I guess—he choked. The paper. It's in my pocket, and he went down unconscious on the floor of the car. When he recovered his senses he was lying on a couch in a plainly furnished room, and a man, a stranger, red, jovial-faced, farmer-ish looking, 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 a little while. Who said so? inquired Jimmy Dale. She did. The woman who brought you here about five minutes ago. She said she ran you down with her car. Oh! said Jimmy Dale. He felt his head. It was bandaged, and it was bandaged he was quite sure with a piece of torn underskirt. He looked at the man again.  Long Island. The other answered. My name's Hanson. I keep a bit of a truck-garden here. Oh! said Jimmy Dale again. The man crossed the room, picked up an envelope from the table, and came back to Jimmy Dale. She said to give you this as soon as you got your senses, and asked us to put you up for a while, as long as you wanted to stay, and paid us for it too. She's all right, she is. You don't want to hold the accident up against her. She was mighty sorry about it. And now I'll go and see if the old ladies got your room ready while you're reading your letter. The man left the room. Jimmy 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't take you to what you call the sanctuary, could I? Couldn't take you to a hospital, nor call in a doctor. The stain you use wouldn't stand for it. But thank God I know it's only a flesh wound, and you are all right where you are for the day or two that you must keep quiet and take care of yourself. By the time you read this, the paper will be on the way to the proper hands, and by morning the four where they should be. There were a few articles in your clothes I thought it better to take charge of in case—well, in case of accident. Jimmy Dale tore the note up, and smiled wryly at the door. He felt in his pockets. Mask, revolver, burglar's tools, and the thin metal insignia case were gone, and I had the sublime optimism, murmured Jimmy Dale, to spend months trying to find her as Larry the Bat. End of Part 1 Chapter 8 C Part 1 Chapter 9a of The Adventures of Jimmy Dale This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard Part 1 The Man in the Case Chapter 9a Two Crooks and a Nave Story begins. The bullet wound along the side of his head and just above his ear would have been a very awkward thing indeed, in more ways than one. For Jimmy Dale, the millionaire, to have explained at his club, in his social set, or even to his servants, and of this latter to jessing the solicitors in particular. But for Jimmy Dale as Larry the Bat, it was a matter of little moment. There was none to question Larry the Bat, save in the most casual and indifferent way, and a bandage of any description. Primarily and above all, one that he could arrange himself, with only himself to take note of the incongruous hues of skin, where the stain, the grease paint, and the makeup was washed off, would excite little attention in that world. Where daily affrays were commonplace happenings, and a wound, for whatever reason, had long since lost the tongue of novelty. Why then should it arouse even a passing interest, if Larry the Bat, credited as the most confirmed of dupfience, should have fallen down the dark rickety stairs of the tenement, in one of his orgies, and in the expensive language of the Badlands, cracked his being. And so Jimmy Dale had been forced to maintain the role of Larry the Bat for a far longer period than he had anticipated. When, ten days before, he had assumed it for the night's walk, that had so nearly resulted fatally for himself, though it had placed Russell's mother as behind the bars. For the next day, unwilling to cut the risk of remaining in that neighborhood, he had left Hanson's, the farmer's, house on Long Island, where the toxin had carried him in an unconscious state. Telephoned Jason that he had been unexpectedly called out of town for a few days, and returned to the sanctuary in New York. And here, to his grim dismay, he had found the underworld in the state of furious, angry unrest, like a nest of honnets, stirred up, seeking to wreck vengeance on an unseen assailant. For years, as the Grey Seal, Jimmy Dale had lived with the slogan of the police. The Grey Seal, dead or alive, but the Grey Seal, sounding in his ears. With the newspapers screaming their diatribes, arousing the people against him, nagging the authorities into sleepless, frenzied efforts to trap him.  But in the underworld, until then, the name of the Grey Seal had been worn to conjure with. For the underworld had swung by the unknown master criminal, and had spoken his name with a reverence, that was none the less genuine. Even if pungently tainted with unholyness. But now it was different. Up and down through the bad lands, in gambling hells, in vicious resorts, in the hiding places where thugs and crooks burrowed themselves away from the daylight. Through the heart and the outskirts of the underworld, travelled the fiat, whispered out of bouts, crooked to one side, vets to the Grey Seal. Gangland differences were forgotten in the larger issue of the common will. The gang spirit became the spirit of a united whole, and the crime fraternity burst and harmed poisonously. Sparred on by hatred, thirst for revenge, fear, and perhaps most potent of all, a hideous suspicion now of each other. The underworld had received a shock at which it stood aghast, and which, with its terrifying possibilities, struck consternation into the soul of every individual of that brotherhood, whose bond was crime, who was already wanted for some offence or order, whether he ranged from mother in the first degree to some petty piece of sneak TV. Stangaste the Indian chief, the lawyer whose cunning brain has stood as a rampart between the underworld and a prison cell, was himself now in the tombs with the certainty of the electric chair before him, and with him the same fate equally assured were Australian Ike, the Mope, and Clary Dean. Aristocrats of the bad lands, peers of that inglorious realm, were those four, and the blue had fallen with stunning force, a blue that in itself would have been enough to have stared the underworld to its death. But that was not all. From the cells in the tombs, from the fore came the word, and passed from mouth to mouth in that strange underground exchange, until all had heard it, that the grey seal had squealed. The grey seal who, though unknown, they had counted the most eminent among themselves had squealed. Who was the grey seal? It was he had held the secrets of standards and his band. What else might he not know? Who else might not fall next? The grey seal had become a snitch, a menace, a source of danger that stalked among them like a ghastly specter. Who was the grey seal? None knew. That to the grey seal, running to earth went the whisper from lip to lip, and with the whisper, men stared uncertainly into each other's faces, fearful that the one to whom they spoke might even be the grey seal. Jimmy Dale's lips twisted quitely as he looked around him at the squalid appointments of the sanctuary. The police were bad enough, the papers were worse, but this was a still graver peril. With every denizen of the underworld below the deadline, suspicious of each other, their lives, the penitentiary, or a prison sentence, the stakes against which each one played, the role of Larry the Bat, clever as was the makeup and disguise, was fraught now more than ever before with danger and peril. It seemed as though slowly the net was beginning at last to tighten around him. The murky yellow flame of the gas jet flickered suddenly, as though in acquiescence, with the quick, impulsive shrug of Jimmy Dale's shoulders, and Jimmy Dale, bending to peer into the cracked mirror that was propped up on the broken legged table, knotted his dress tie almost fastidiously. The hair, if just a trifle too long, covered the scar on his 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 the bed, neatly folded, lay his dress coat and overcoat, but little creased for all that they had lain in their hiding place, under the flooring, since the night. When hurrying from the club, he had placed them there to assume instead the Thathars of Larry the Bat. It was Jimmy Dale, in his own personal game, who stood there now, in Larry the Bat's death-reputable den. An incongruous figure enough against the background of his miserable surroundings, in perfect-fitting shoes and trousers, the broad expanse of spotless white shirt bosom, glistening even in the poverty-stricken flare from the single, sputtering gas jet. Jimmy Dale took the watch from his pocket that had not been wound for many days, wound it mechanically, set it by guesswork. It was not far from eight o'clock, and replaced it in his pocket. Carefully then, one at a time, he examined his fingers, long, slim, sensitive, tapering fingers, magical masters of safes and locks, and vaults of the most intricate and modern mechanism. No single trace of grime remained. They were metamorphosed hands from the filthy paws of Larry the Bat. He nodded in satisfaction and picked up the mirror. For a final inspection of himself, that, this time, did not miss a single line in his face or neck. Again, Jimmy Dale nodded, as though he had vanished into thin air, as though he had never existed. Not a trace of Larry the Bat remained, except the heap of rags upon the floor, the battered slouch hat, the frayed trousers, the patched boots with their broken laces, the mismatched socks, the grimy flannel shirt, and the old coat that he had just discarded. The mirror was replaced on the table, and pushing the heap of clothes before him with his foot, Jimmy Dale knelt down in the corner of the room, where the oilcloth had been turned up, and the loose planking of the floor removed, and began to pack the articles away in the hole. Jimmy Dale rolled the trousers of Larry the Bat into a compact little bundle, and stuffed them under the flooring. The gas jet seemed to blink again in a sort of confidential approval, as though the secret lay inviolated between itself and Jimmy Dale. Through the closed window, shade tightly drawn, came low and muffled, the sound of distant life from the bowery, a few blocks away. The gas jet, suffering from air somewhere within the pipes, hissed angrily. The yellow flame died to a little blue, forked spot, and Jimmy Dale was on his feet, his face suddenly hard and white as marble. Someone was knocking at the door, for the fraction of a second. Jimmy Dale stood motionless, found as Jimmy Dale in the den of Larry the Bat, and the consequences required no effort of the imagination to picture them. Police, organizing of the underworld who was knocking there, it was all the same. The method of death would be a little different, that was all. One legalized the other not. Jimmy Dale, Larry the Bat, the gray seal, once uncovered, could expect as much quarter as would be given to a cornered rat. His eyes swept the room with a swift critical glance, evidences of Larry the Bat, the clothes were still about, even if he and the person of Jimmy Dale alone damning enough were not standing there himself. And he was even weaponless. The toxin had taken the revolver from his pocket, together with those other telltale articles. The mask, the flashlight, the little blue steel tools, before she had entrusted him that night, wounded and unconscious to Hanson's care. Jimmy Dale slipped his feet out of his low evening pumps, snatched up the old coat and hat from the pyre, put them on, and without a sound, reached the gas jet and turned it off. A second had gone by, no more. The knocking still sounded insistently on the door. It was dark now, perfectly black. He started across the room. His tread absolutely silent, as the trained muscles, relaxing, chewed the body with gradually upon one foot before the next step was taken. It was like a shadow, a little blacker in outline than the surrounding blackness stilling across the floor. Halfway to the door he paused. The knocking had ceased. He listened intently. It was not repeated. Instead, his ear caught a gathered step retreating outside in the hall.  He went on again to the door, still listening. Was it a trap? That step outside. At the door now, thanks a lot, he lowered his ear to the keyhole. There came the faintest creak from the stairs. Jimmy Dale's brows gathered. It was strange. The knocking had not lasted long. Whoever it was was going away. But it required the utmost caution to descend those stairs. Rikety and tumble down as they were. With no more sound than that. Why such caution? Why not in more determined and prolonged effort at his door? The visitor had been easily satisfied that Larry the bat was not reading. Too easily satisfied. Jimmy Dale turned the key noiselessly in the lock. He opened the door cautiously. Half inch, an inch. There was no sound of footsteps now. Occasionally, a larger moved about on the floor above. Occasionally, from somewhere in the tenement, came the murmur of voices as from behind closed door. That was all. All else was silenced and darkness now. The door, on its well-old hinges, swung wide open. Jimmy Dale thrust out his head into the hall. And something fell upon the threshold with a little thought. But for a moment, Jimmy Dale did not move. Listening, trying to pierce the darkness, he was as still as the silence around him. Then he stooped and grouped along the threshold. His hand closed upon 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. It was strange. Unpleasantly strange. A box propped stealthily against the door so that it would fall to the threshold when the door was opened. And why the stealth? What did it mean? Had they underwalled with its thousand eyes and ears already succeeded in a few days where the police had failed significantly for years? Had they sent him this, whatever it was, as some grim token that they had run Larry the Bat to Earth? He shook his head. No. Gangland struck more swiftly. With less finesse than that, the Cat and Mouse Act was never won in favor for the mouse had been known to get away. Jimmy Dale lighted the gas again and turned the package over in his hands. It was, as he had surmised, a small cardboard box, and it was wrapped 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 is stalked by peril at every turn, removed the wrapper a little gingerly. It was still without sign or marking upon it. Just an ordinary cardboard box. He lifted off the cover and, with a short sudden laugh, stared a little out of countenance at the contents. On the top lay a white unaddressed envelope. Has. Beneath, he emptied the box on the table, his black silk mask, his automatic revolver, the kit of fine, small, blued, steel burglar stools, his pocket flashlight, and the thin metal insignia case. The toxin. Impulsively, Jimmy Dale turned toward the door and stopped. His shoulders lifted in a shrug that, meant to be philosophical, was far from philosophical. He could not. Dead, not venture far through the tenement, dressed as he was. And, even if he could, there were three exits to the sanctuary. A fact that now, for the first time, was not wholly a source of unmixed satisfaction to him. And besides, she was gone. Jimmy Dale opened the letter. A grim smile, plain on his lips. He had forgotten for the moment, that the illusion he had cherished for years, and the belief that she did not know Larry the Bat, as an alias of Jimmy Dale, was no more than an illusion. Well, it had been a piece of consummate egotism on his part, that was all. But after all, what did it matter? He had had his innings, tried in the role of Larry the Bat to solve her identity, devoted weeks on end to the attempt, and failed. Someday, perhaps, his turn would come. Someday, perhaps, she would no longer be able to elude him, unless the letter crackled suddenly in his fingers. Unless the house that they had built on such strange and perilous foundations, crashed at some moment, without an instant warning, in disaster and ruin to the ground. Who knew, but that this letter now, another call to the grey seal to act, another peril invited, would be the last. There must be an end someday. Locke and Neve had their limitations. It had almost ended last week. Their philanthropic crook. It was the same inevitable beginning.  I am sending these little things back to you, for you will need them tonight. Jimmy Dale read on motoring snatches of the letter aloud. Michael Breen prospecting in Alaska. Map of location of rich mining claim. Hamvert, his former partner, had previously fleeced him of $15,000. His share of a deal together. Breen was always a very poor man. Breen later struck a claim alone. But taking sick, he came back home. Died on arrival in New York after giving map to his wife. Wife in very nitty circumstances. Lives with little daughter of seven in New Rochelle. Works out by the day at Henry Mittell's house on the sound nearby. Wife entrusted map for safekeeping and advice to Mittell. Hamvert after map. Telephone wires cut. Room 148. Corner. Right, first floor. Palais metropole hotel. Unoccupied, connecting doors. Quarter past nine tonight. The whistle. Mittell's house later. The police. Look out for both the whistle and the police. Jimmy. There was more. Several pages of it. Explanations. Specific details down to a minute description of the locality and plan of the house on the sound. Jimmy Dale. Two he turned down to mutter. Read unsilently. At the end, he shuffled the sheets a little abstractedly. As his face hardened. Then his fingers began to tear the letter into little shreds. Tearing it over and over again. Tearing the shreds into tiny particles. He had not been far wrong. From what the knight promised now, this might well be the last letter. Who knew? There would be need of all the wheat and loc and nerf tonight that the grey seal had ever had before. With a jack, Jimmy Dale roused himself on the momentary reverie into which he had fallen. An all-action noun stuffed the torn pieces of the letter into his trouser's pocket to be disposed of later in the street. Took off the old coat and slouched hat again and resumed the disposal of Larry the Bat's effects under the flooring. This accomplished. He replaced the planking and oilcloth. Stood up, put on his dress coat and light overcoat. And from the table, stowed the black syrup mask, the automatic, the little kit of tools, the flashlight and the tin metal case away in his pockets. Jimmy Dale raised his hand to the gas fixture. Circled the room with a glance that missed no single detail. Then the light went out. The door closed behind him. Locked. A dark shadow crept silently down the stairs. Out through the side door into the hallway. Along the alleyway, close to the wall of the tenement where it was blackest. Unsatisfied that for the moment there were no passersby, he marched on the street, walking leisurely toward the bowery. Once well away from the sanctuary, however, Jimmy Dale quickened his steps and 20 minutes later, having stopped but once to telephone to his home on Riverside Drive for his touring car, he was briskly mounting the steps of the St. James Club on Fifth Avenue. Another 20 minutes after that, and he had dismissed Benson his shuffle and at the wheel of his big powerful machine, was speeding uptown for the Palais Metropole Hotel.