Robert Mac Micking - "Recollections of Manilla and the Philippines"

Bjornstjerne M. Bjornson - "Three Dramas"

Belle K. Maniates - "Amarilly of Clothes line Alley"

Harriet T. Comstock - "A Son of the Hills"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale

F >> Frank L. Packard >> The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale




"One chance in ten," muttered Jimmie Dale through his set lips. "One
chance in ten--and I guess I'll take it!"

The footsteps came nearer--they were almost at the head of the stairs
now. But now Jimmie Dale was in action--swift as a flash and silent as a
shadow in every movement. The bundle of securities was thrust into his
pocket, the sheet of note paper followed, and, as a knock sounded on the
door, he stooped, picked up the bottle from the floor, and darted into
the adjoining room--and in another instant he had reached the locked
door and was working at it silently and swiftly with a picklock.




CHAPTER XVII


THE DEFAULTER

At the other door the knocking still continued--and then it was
opened--and there came a chorus of low, horrified, startled cries, and
the quick rush of feet into the room.

The picklock went back into Jimmie Dale's pocket, and crouched, now, his
hand on the knob, turning it gradually without a sound, drawing the door
ajar inch by inch, he kept his eyes on the doorway connecting with the
other room. He could see the three men bending over Forrester. Their
voices came in confused, broken, snatches:

"... Dead!... Good God!... Are you sure?... Perhaps he's only
fainted.... No, he's dead, poor devil!..."

And then one of the men, the youngest of the three, a slight-built,
clean-shaven, dark-eyed man of perhaps twenty-eight or thirty, rose
abruptly, and glanced sharply around the room.

"Yes, he's dead!" he said bitterly. "Any one could tell that! But he
wouldn't be dead, and this would never have happened if you'd done what
I wanted you to do when you first came to the bank this afternoon. I
wanted you to have him arrested then, didn't I?"

One of the others--and it was obvious that the others were the two bank
examiners--a man of middle age, answered soberly.

"You're upset, Dryden," he said. "You know we couldn't do that--"

"On a teller's word against the cashier's--of course not!" the young man
broke in caustically. "Well, you see now, don't you?"

"We couldn't do it then without proof," amended the bank examiner
quietly.

"Proof!" Dryden exclaimed. "My God--_proof!_ Who tipped your people off
to have you drop in there this afternoon? I did, didn't I? Do you think
I'd do that without knowing what I was about! Didn't I tell you that
there was nothing but the office fixtures left! Didn't I? There were
only the two of us on the staff, and didn't I tell you that I had
discovered that the books were cooked from cover to cover? Yes, I did!
And you had to get your pencils out and start in on a thumb-rule
examination, as though nothing were the matter! Well, what did you find?
The securities in a mess, what there was left of them--and what was
supposed to be twenty thousand dollars that came out from the city
yesterday nothing but a package of blank paper!"

"You didn't know that yourself until half an hour ago when we started to
check up the cash," returned the other a little sharply.

"Well, perhaps, I didn't," admitted Dryden; "but I knew about the
books."

"Besides that," continued the bank examiner, "Mr. Forrester was in town
this afternoon when we got to the bank and this is the first time we
have seen him, so we could not very well have done anything other than
we have done in any case. I mention this because you are talking wildly,
and that sort of talk, if it gets out, won't do any of us any good. You
don't want to blame Mr. Marner here and myself for Mr. Forrester's
death, do you?"

"No--of course, I don't!" said Dryden, in a more subdued voice. "I
don't mean that at all. I guess you're right--I'm excited. I--well"--he
motioned jerkily toward the form on the floor--"I'm not used to walking
into a room and finding _that_."

It was Marner, the other bank examiner, who broke a moment's silence.

"We none of us are," he said, and brushed his hand across his forehead.
"A doctor can't do any good, of course, but I suppose we should call one
at once, and notify the police, too. I--"

Jimmie Dale had slipped through the door and out into the hall. A moment
more and he had descended the stairs and gained the street, still
another and he had stepped nonchalantly into his car. The car started
forward, passed out of the lighted zone of the town's main street--and
in the darkness, headed toward New York, Jimmie Dale, his nonchalance
gone now, leaned forward over the wheel, and the big sixty horse-power
car leaped into its stride like a thoroughbred at the touch of the spur,
and tore onward at dare-devil speed through the night.

His lips twisted in a smile that held little of humour. Back there in
that room they would call a doctor, and they would call the police. And
the doctor would establish the fact that Forrester had died from the
effects of a dose of prussic acid; and the police would establish--what?
Prussic acid was swift in its effect. If Forrester had died from that
cause, how had he taken it himself, and out of what had he taken it?
What the police would see would be quite a different thing from what he,
Jimmie Dale, had seen when he opened the door of that room! Instead of
the evidence of suicide, there was now every evidence of _murder_. The
bank examiners on entering the room, started at what they saw, obsessed
with the wreckage of the bank, might still for the moment have jumped to
the conclusion, natural enough under the circumstances, of suicide; but
the police, after ten minutes of unemotional investigation, would father
a very different theory.

Jimmie Dale's jaws clamped, as his eyes narrowed on the flying thread of
gray road under the dancing headlights. Well, the die was cast now! For
good or bad, his response to Forrester's telephone appeal had become the
vital factor in the case. For good or bad! He laughed out sharply into
the night. He would see soon enough--old Kronische, the wizened, crafty,
little chemist, who burrowed like a fox in its hole deep in the heart of
the Bad Lands, would answer that question. Old Kronische had a record
that was known to police and underworld alike--and was trusted by
neither one, and feared by both. But he was clever--clever with a
devilish cleverness. God alone knew what he was up to in the long hours
of day and night amongst his retorts and test tubes in his abominable
smelling little hole; but every one knew that from old Kronische
_anything_ of a chemical nature could be obtained if the price, not a
small one, was forthcoming, and if old Kronische was satisfied with the
credentials of his prospective client.

Yes--old Kronische! Old Kronische was the man, the one than; there was
no possible hesitancy or question there--the question was how to reach
old Kronische. Jimmie Dale shook his head in a quick, impatient gesture,
as though in irritation because his brain would not instantly respond to
his demand to formulate a plan. It seemed simple enough, old Kronische
was perfectly accessible--but it was, nevertheless, far from simple. He
could not go to old Kronische as Jimmie Dale, there was an ugly turn
that had been taken in that room of Forrester's now. If, as Jimmie
Dale, he had had reason to keep out of the affair before, it was
imperative that he should do so now--or he might find himself in a very
awkward situation, so awkward, in fact, that the consequences might lead
anywhere, and "anywhere" to Jimmie Dale, to the Gray Seal, to
Smarlinghue, might mean ruin, wreckage and disaster. Nor, much less,
could he risk going to old Kronische as Smarlinghue. He could not trust
old Kronische. How, if old Kronische chose to "talk," could Smarlinghue
account for any connection with what had transpired in Forrester's room?
How long would it be, even if Smarlinghue were no more than put under
surveillance, before the discovery would be made that Smarlinghue was
but a role that covered--Jimmie Dale!

And then Jimmie Dale's strained, set face relaxed a little. His brain
had repented of its stubbornness, it seemed, and was at work again.
There was a way, a very sure way as far as old Kronische being
"talkative" was concerned, but a very dangerous way from every other
point of view. Suppose he went to old Kronische--as Larry the Bat!

The car tore on through the night; towns and villages flashed by; the
long, deserted stretches of road began to give way to the city's
outskirts--and Jimmie Dale began to drive more cautiously. Larry the
Bat! Yes, it was perfectly feasible, as far as feasibility went. The
clothes that he had duplicated at such infinite trouble were still
hidden there in the Sanctuary. But to be caught as Larry the Bat
meant--the end. That was the one thing the underworld knew, the one
thing the police knew--that Larry the Bat was, or had been, the Gray
Seal. Still, he had done it once before, and it could be done again. He
could reach old Kronische's without much fear of discovery after all, he
would take good care to secure the few minutes necessary to make a
"getaway" from the old chemist's, and _afterwards_ old Kronische could
talk as much as he liked about--Larry the Bat! Yes, that was the way!
Old Kronische--and Larry the Bat. He, Jimmie Dale, would drive, say, to
Marlianne's restaurant, and telephone Jason to send Benson for the
car--Marlianne's, besides being a very natural stopping place, possessed
the added advantage of being quite close to the Sanctuary.

His decision made, Jimmie Dale gave his undivided attention to his car,
and ten minutes later, stopping in the shabby street that harboured
Marlianne's, he entered the restaurant, threaded his way through the
small crowded rooms--for Marlianne's, despite its spotted linen, was
crowded at all hours--to a sort of hallway at the rear of the place, and
entered the telephone booth.

He called his residence, and, as he waited for the connection, glanced
at his watch. He smiled grimly. He could congratulate himself for the
second time that night on having made a record run. It was not yet quite
half-past ten, and he must have been at least a good twenty minutes in
Forrester's rooms. He rattled the hook impatiently. They were a long
time in getting the connection! Halfpast ten! He could be at the
Sanctuary in another few minutes, ten minutes at the outside; then, say,
another twenty to rehabilitate Larry the Bat, and by eleven he--

"Yes--hello!"--he was speaking quickly into the 'phone, as Jason's voice
reached him. "Jason, I am down here at Marlianne's. Tell Benson to come
for the car, and--" He stopped abruptly. Jason was talking excitedly,
almost incoherently at the other end.

"Master Jim, sir! Is that you, sir, Master Jim! It--it came, sir, not
ten minutes after you left to-night, and--"

"Jason," said Jimmie Dale sharply, "what's the matter with you? What
are you talking about? What came?"

"Why--why, sir--I beg your pardon, sir, but I've been a bit uneasy ever
since, sir. It's--it's one of those letters, Master Jim, sir."

A sudden whiteness came into Jimmie Dale's face, as he stared
into the mouthpiece of the telephone. A "call to arms" from the
Tocsin--_now_--to-night! What was he to do! It was not a trivial thing
which that letter would contain--it never had been, and it never would
be, and no matter under what circumstances it found him, he--

Jason's voice faltered over the wire:

"Are you there, sir, Master Jim?"

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale quietly. "Bring the letter with you, Jason, and
come down with Benson. I will wait for you here--in the car outside
Marlianne's. And hurry, Jason--take a taxi down."

"Yes, sir," said Jason, his voice trembling a little. "At once,
Master Jim."

Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver, returned to the street, and seated
himself in his car. How long would it take them to get here? Half an
hour? Well then, for half an hour his hands were tied, and he could do
nothing but wait. He glanced around him. It was curious! It was here in
this very place that he had once found a letter from her in his car; it
was even here that, without knowing it at the moment, he had really seen
her for the first time. And now--what did it hold, this letter, this
"call to arms" that he sat here waiting for, while out there in that
little town a man lay dead on the floor of his room, and around whom,
where there had once been the evidence of a coward's guilt, crowned with
the sorriest epitaph that ever man had written, there was now the
evidence of a still blacker crime--the crime of murder.

He lighted a cigarette and smoked it through. Could it be _that_--in her
letter! Intuition again? Well, why not--if old Kronische should answer
the question as the chances were one in ten that old Kronische might
answer it! Yes--why not! It would not be strange. Intuition--because
somehow the feeling that it _was_ so grew stronger with each moment that
passed--well, once before to-night he had said that intuition had never
failed him yet!

The minutes dragged by interminably. He smoked another cigarette, and
after that another. The clock under the hood showed five minutes past
eleven; the minute hand crept around to eight, nine, ten minutes past
the hour--and then a taxi swerved on little better than two wheels
around the corner--and Jimmie Dale, springing from his seat, jumped to
the pavement as the taxi drew up at the curb.

Jason, palpably agitated, and followed by Benson, descended from the
taxi. Jimmie Dale dismissed the cab, and motioned Benson to the car.

"Well, Jason?" he said quickly.

"It's here, sir, Master Jim"--the old butler fumbled in an inner pocket,
and produced an envelope--"I--"

"Thank you! That's all--Jason." Jimmie Dale's quick smile robbed his
curt dismissal of any sting. "Benson, of course, will drive you home."

"Yes, sir." The old man went slowly to the car, and climbed in beside
the chauffeur. "Good-night, sir!" Jason ventured wistfully. "Good-night,
Master Jim!"

"Good-night, Jason--good-night, Benson!" Jimmie Dale answered--and,
turning, started briskly along the street. Jason's "good-night" had been
eloquent of the old man's anxiety. He would have liked to reassure Jason
--but he had neither the time, nor, for that matter, the ability to do
so. The old man would be reassured when he saw his Master Jim enter the
house again--and not until then!

Jimmie Dale glanced about him up and down the street. The car had gone,
and he was well away from the entrance to Marlianne's. The street itself
was practically deserted. He nodded quickly, and stepped forward toward
a street lamp that was close at hand. As well here as anywhere! There
was nothing remarkable in the fact that a man should stand under a
street lamp and read a letter--even if he were observed.

He tore the envelope open, and, standing there, leaned in apparent
nonchalance against the post--but into the dark eyes had leaped a sudden
flash. One word seemed to stand out from all the rest on the written
page he held in his hand--"Forrester." He laughed a little in a low,
grim way. His intuition had been right again then, and that
meant--_what_? If she, the Tocsin, knew, then--his mind was working
subconsciously, leaping from premise to a dimly seen, half formed
conclusion, while his eyes travelled rapidly over the written lines.

"Dear Philanthropic Crook:--You will have to hurry, Jimmie.... I do not
know what may happen.... Forrester ... bank cashier at"--yes, he knew
all that! But this--what was this? "Money lender.... Abe Suviney... bled
him ... early days in city bank ... fellow clerk's defalcation....
Forrester borrowed the money to cover it and save the other.... Suviney
used it as a club for blackmail.... Forrester was trapped ... could not
extricate himself without inculpating his friend ... friend died ...
Suviney put on the screws ... to say anything then was to have it look
like a dishonourable method of covering a theft of his own ... would
ruin his career ... original amount four thousand ... Forrester has
been paying blackmail in the shape of exorbitant interest ever since ...
Suviney finally demanded six thousand to-day to be paid at once ... this
has nothing to do with the bank robbery, but would look black ... added
evidence...." He read on, his mind seeming to absorb the contents of the
letter faster than his eyes could decipher the words. "English Dick ...
confession forged ... organisation widespread ... enormously powerful
... leadership a mystery ... rendezvous that English Dick visits is at
Marlopp's ... Reddy Mull's room ... rear room ... leaves cash and
securities there under loose board, right-hand corner from door ...
twenty thousand cash to-night...."

Jimmie Dale was walking on down the street, his fingers picking and
tearing the sheets of paper in his hand into minute fragments. There was
a sort of cold, unemotional, unnatural calm upon him. It was all here,
all, the Tocsin had--no, not all! She had not known of the last act in
the brutal drama, for her letter had been written prior to that. She had
not known that there was--_murder_. But apart from that, to the last
detail, in all its hideous, relentless craft, the whole plot was clear.
There was no need to go to old Kronische now, no need to assume the role
of Larry the Bat. The question was answered--the confession _was_ a
forgery--the evidence, not of suicide, but of murder, that he, Jimmie
Dale, had left behind him in that room, was the evidence of fact.

He walked on--rapidly now--heading over in the direction of the Bowery.
There had been neither ink nor pen upon the desk where he had found the
confession, nor had there been a fountain pen in Forrester's pocket when
he had searched the other! He laughed out a little harshly. A strange
oversight on some one's part if there had been foul play--so strange
that he had hesitated to believe it possible! And so it had been--one
chance in ten, for there was nothing to have prevented Forrester from
having written the note elsewhere than in his own room. But if Forrester
had written it, he must of necessity have written it very recently,
certainly _after_ he had telephoned, that is, within an hour; whereas,
if it had been written by some one else and brought there, if it was
forged, if it was murder and not suicide, the note must have taken long
and painstaking effort to prepare beforehand. That was the question that
old Kronische, the chemist, was to have answered, a question that was
very much in the cunning old fox's line--did the condition of the ink
show that the note had been written within the hour? It was a very
simple question for old Kronische, the man would have answered it
instantly, for even to him, Jimmie Dale, the writing had not looked
_fresh_. But there was no need of old Kronische now! And he, Jimmie
Dale, understood now, too, the reason for Forrester's appeal over the
telephone. In some way Forrester, without going to the bank itself, had
learned that the bank examiners had suddenly put in an appearance, had
either discovered or deduced that something was wrong, and had realised
that should Suviney's demand for money, or Suviney's blackmailing story
become known, it would appear as damning evidence of a past record
looming up to point suspicion toward him now. That was what he had meant
by saying he needed financial help.

Jimmie Dale slipped suddenly into a lane, edged along the wall of the
tenement that made the corner, pushed aside a loose board in the fence,
passed into the little courtyard beyond, and, still hugging the shadows
of the building, opened a narrow French window, and stepped through into
a room. He was in the Sanctuary.




CHAPTER XVIII


ALIAS ENGLISH DICK

But Jimmie Dale lost no time in the Sanctuary. In the darkness he
crossed the room, and from behind the movable section of the baseboard
possessed himself of a pocket flashlight, and a small, but extremely
serviceable, steel jimmy--and in a moment more was back in the lane,
and from the lane again was heading still deeper into the heart of the
East Side.

English Dick! A twisted smile crossed his lips. Well as he knew the
underworld and its sordid citizenship, he might be forgiven for not
knowing English Dick. The man's reputation had reached into every
corner of the Bad Lands, it was true; but it had not been known that
the man himself was on this side of the water. And that the secret had
been kept spoke with grim and deadly significance for the power and
cunning of the master brain to which the Tocsin had referred, for
English Dick was known as the most famous forger in Europe, the best in
his line, and as such, from afar, was worshipped as a demi-god by the
underworld of New York.

Block after block of dark, ill-lighted streets Jimmie Dale traversed,
until, perhaps fifteen minutes after he had left the Sanctuary, he
swerved suddenly for the second time that night into a lane. He might
not have known English Dick, but he knew Reddy Mull, and he knew
Marloff's! Reddy Mull was a gangster, a gunman pure and simple, whose
services were at the call of the highest bidder; and Marlopp's was a
pool and billiard hall--to the uninitiated. Marlopp's, however, if one
had ears well trained enough to hear, resounded to the click of ivory
that was not the click of pool and billiard balls! Upstairs, if one
could get upstairs, a gambling hell supplanted the billiard hall below.
It was an unsavoury place, the resort of crooks, some of whom lived
there--amongst them, Reddy Mull.

Jimmie Dale, close against the fence, and halfway down the lane now,
paused and looked about him, straining his eyes through the
blackness--then with a lithe spring he caught the top of the fence,
swung himself over, and dropped to the ground on the other side. The
rear of a row of low buildings now loomed up before him across a narrow
yard. Window lights showed here and there from the houses on either
side; and from the upper windows of the house directly in front of him
faint threads of light filtered out into the darkness through the cracks
of closed shutters, but the lower part of the house was in blackness.

He crept forward silently across the yard. There was a back entrance,
but it led to the basement--Jimmie Dale's immediate attention was
directed to the rear window, the window of one Reddy Mull's room. And
here, crouched beneath it, Jimmie Dale listened. From the front of the
establishment came muffled sounds from the pool and billiard hall; there
was nothing else.

The window was above the level of his head, but still easily within
reach. He tested it, found it locked--and the steel jimmy crept in
under the sash. A moment passed, there was a faint, almost
indistinguishable creak; and then Jimmie Dale, drawing himself up with
the agility of a cat, had slipped through, and was standing, listening
again, inside the room.

The sounds from the pool room were louder, more distinct now, even
rising once into a shout of boisterous hilarity; but there was no other
sound. The round, white ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight circled the room
suddenly, inquisitively--and went out. It was a bare, squalid place,
dirty, filthy, disreputable. There was a bed, unmade, a table, a few
chairs, a greasy, threadbare carpet on the floor--nothing else, save
that his eyes had noted that the electric-light switch was on the wall
beside the jamb of the door.

The flashlight winked again--and again went out. Jimmie Dale slipped his
mask over his face, and moved forward toward the wall.

"Under loose board, right-hand corner from door," murmured Jimmie Dale.
He was kneeling on the floor now. "Yes, here it was!" His flashlight was
boring down into a little excavation beneath the piece of flooring he
had removed. He stared into this for a moment, his lips twitching
grimly; then, with a whimsical shrug of his shoulders, he replaced the
board, and stood up. He had found the hiding place without any
trouble--but he had found it _empty_. "I guess," said Jimmie Dale, with
a mirthless smile, "that there's a good deal of the bank's property at
large--temporarily!"

There was a chair by the wall close to the door, he had noticed. He
moved over, and sat down--but, instead of his flashlight, his automatic
was in his hand now. There was the chance, of course, that English Dick
had already been here with that twenty thousand from the bank, and in
that case, as witness the empty hiding place, Reddy Mull had already
passed it on; but it was much more likely that neither one of the two
had yet arrived. Which one would come first then--English Dick, or
Reddy Mull? If it were Reddy Mull it would be unfortunate--for Reddy
Mull. His, Jimmie Dale's, immediate business was with English Dick,
and he was quite content to leave Reddy Mull to the later ministrations
of the police.

Jimmie Dale's fingers tested the mechanism of his automatic in the
darkness. Whose was the master brain behind all this? This crime
to-night bore glaring evidence to the work of some far-flung, intricate
and powerful organisation--the Tocsin was indubitably right in that. Was
this the first concrete expression he had had of that undercurrent he
had sensed of late as permeating the underworld, that he had sensed was
reaching out as one of its objects for _him_ and that--

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