Rupert Hughes - "We Can't Have Everything"

Richard F. Burton - "First footsteps in East Africa"

Roger Finlay - "The Wonder Island Boys: The Tribesmen"

Various - "Scientific American Supplement, No. 385, May 19, 1883"

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




Jimmie Dale was quietly folding the sheets of paper in his hand. Some
one was knocking at the door.

"Come in!" said Jimmie Dale--and slipped the letter back into his
pocket, as the door opened.

It was one of the club's attendants.

"I beg pardon, Mr. Dale, sir," said the man; "but there is a 'phone call
for you." He glanced toward the telephone on the table. "I was not sure
just where you were, sir. Shall I ask them to connect you here?"

"Thank you!" said Jimmie pleasantly. "Very good, Masters. No--I'll
attend to it myself."

The man withdrew, and closed the door again. Jimmie Dale rose from his
chair, and, stepping to the table, picked up the instrument.

"There is a call for me, I believe," he said. "This is Mr. Dale."

There was a moment's silence, then Jimmie Dale spoke again.

"Yes--hello!" he said. "Yes, this is Mr. Dale. What--"

The room seemed suddenly to swirl about him--the hand so steady a few
moments ago was trembling palpably now as it held the instrument. _Her
voice_? No--he was mad! It was his brain, overwrought, strained, not to
the breaking point, but beyond, that had broken at last, and was mocking
at him now in some cruel phantasy. Her voice? No, it could not be, for
she--for she was--

"Jimmie! Jimmie!"--the voice came hurriedly again, almost frantically
this time. "Jimmie--are you there?"

"You!" His lips were dry, he moistened them with his tongue. "You!" he
whispered hoarsely. "You, Marie--and I thought--I thought that you
were--"

"Jimmie," she broke in, a quick, wistful catch in her voice, "I cannot
stay here a moment--you understand, don't you? There is not an instant
to lose--on the floor by the Sanctuary window--a note--will you hurry,
Jimmie--good-bye."

She was gone. Mechanically he replaced the receiver on the hook. She was
gone--but it _was_ her voice he had heard--hers--and she was alive. The
play of emotion upon him robbed him for the moment of coherent thought,
and came and swept over him in a mighty surge and engulfed him; and now
in the sudden revulsion from despair and the bitterest of agony his mind
was dazed and numbed. It seemed as though he were obeying some
subconscious power, as he turned and left the room; as though some
influence outside of, and extraneous to, himself gave him a spurious
self-mastery, a self-command, a mask of nonchalance, as he walked calmly
through the club lobby and out to the street.

Benson, his chauffeur, held the door of his car open for him.

"Where to, sir?" Benson asked.

"The Palace--Bowery," Jimmie Dale answered. "And hurry, Benson!"




CHAPTER XXIII


HUNCHBACK JOE

Jimmy Dale flung himself back on the seat of the big touring car. It was
an address, the Palace Saloon on the Bowery, that he had often given
Benson before--the nearest point to which Benson, trusted as Benson was,
had ever been permitted to approach the Sanctuary itself. The night air,
the sweep of the wind was grateful, as the machine sped forward. He did
not reason, he could not reason--his mind was in turmoil still. Only two
things were clear, distinct, rising dominant out of that turmoil--that
he had heard her voice, her voice that he had never thought to hear
again; and that there was need, a desperate need for haste now, because
he must reach the Sanctuary without an instant's loss of time.

And then gradually his brain began to clear, to adjust itself, to
function normally; and when finally the car drew up at a corner on the
Bowery, it was a Jimmie Dale, keen, self-possessed and alert, who sprang
briskly to the pavement.

"Will you need me any further, sir?" Benson asked.

Jimmie Dale was lighting a cigarette deliberately--it was the same
question that he was pondering in his own mind, but the answer was
dependent upon the contents of that note which was waiting for him in
the Sanctuary.

"I am not quite sure, Benson," he replied. "In any case, you had better
wait here for twenty, minutes. If I am not back in that time, you may go
home. Don't wait any longer."

"Very good, sir," Benson answered.

It was only a short distance to the Sanctuary--down the cross street, a
turn into another only to emerge again on one that paralleled the first,
and then Jimmie Dale, walking slowly now, was sauntering along an
ill-lighted thoroughfare flanked on either side with a miscellany of
small shops and tenements of the cheaper class. There were but few
pedestrians in sight; but, as he neared the tenement that made the
corner of the lane ahead, Jimmie Dale's pace became still more
leisurely. A man and a woman were strolling up the street toward him.
They passed. Jimmie Dale, at the corner of the lane now, glanced behind
him. The two were self-absorbed. And then, like a shadow merging with
the darkness of the lane, Jimmie Dale had disappeared.

In an instant, he had gained the loose board in the high fence; and in
another, pressing close to the rear wall of the tenement, he had reached
the little French window that gave on the dingy courtyard. There was an
almost inaudible sound, a faint metallic _snip_, as, kneeling, his
fingers loosened the hidden catch beneath the sill--and the window on
well-oiled hinges swung silently inward, and closed as silently again
behind Jimmie Dale as he entered.

The top-light, high up near the ceiling, threw a misty ray of moonlight
along the greasy, threadbare carpet, and threw into relief a folded
piece of dark-coloured paper at Jimmie Dale's feet. He stooped and
picked it up--and then moving close to the window again, his fingers, in
the darkness, felt over the dilapidated roller shade to assure himself
that the rents were securely pinned together against the possibility of
prying eyes. He stepped quickly then across the room, tested the door
lock; and then the single gas-jet, air-choked, hissing spitefully,
illuminated the room with a wavering meagre yellow flame.

Under the light, Jimmie Dale unfolded the paper, his face hardening
suddenly. It was not like any note she had ever written him
before--there was no white envelope here, no paper of fine and delicate
texture, no ink-written message carefully penned; instead, evidence
enough of her desperate haste, the desperate circumstances probably
under which she had written it, the message was on a torn piece of brown
wrapping paper, and the words, in pencil, were scrawled in hurried,
broken sentences. And standing there, fighting for a grip upon himself,
Jimmie Dale read the message----almost illegible! in places--and then, as
though a strange incredulity, a strange inability to grasp and
understand its import fully, were prompting him, he read it again,
murmuring snatches of it aloud.

"... I did not mean to bring you into the shadows... but there is
another life, not mine, at stake ... I have no right to do anything else
... if I intervened, or gave warning, the evidence that will convict
Clarke's agent, and will convict Clarke through the agent, is lost...
that is why, in spite of all, I am writing this ... do you understand?
... for three nights he disappeared, and somehow, I do not yet know how,
evaded me in the daytime ... no trace, just as I believed I had the man
through whom Clarke is working trapped ... dared not take the chance of
giving up watch for an instant ... did not know about this afternoon
until an hour ago ... too late ... Jathan Lane's murder at the bank ...
Klanner, the janitor of the bank ... very fair hair, scar on left cheek
bone ... worked at night ... under passage from private office ...
blackjack with which murder was done, document and money in Klanner's
room ... unmarried ... lives in rear room, first floor of tenement at
... you must get the evidence ... unto Caesar!.. ship chandler's store,
junk shop ... Larens, Joe Larens, the hunchback ... Clarke's agent ...
another murder to cover up their tracks ... must get Clarke through
Hunchback Joe ... will squeal if he sees no way of escape ... Klanner's
room at once ... Klanner with Kid Greer will be at Baldy Jack's at ten
o'clock ... will stop at nothing ... innocent bystander ... document of
international importance, ... gold and details ... Federal authorities,
not the police ... will see that Secret Service men get tip where to
raid at midnight ... under the sail cloth in left corner ..."

Jimmie Dale was tearing the paper into little shreds. His brain, eagerly
now, was leaping from premise to conclusion, fitting the strange,
complex parts of her story, seemingly so utterly at variance one with
another, into a single, concrete whole. Yes, he understood why, in spite
of herself, she had been forced to bring him within those shadows at the
last--to save another's life, which she could not do alone without
forfeiting the opportunity of securing the evidence that would condemn
those actually guilty, and reach, through the lesser lights, the man
higher up--Marre, alias Clarke. Yes, he understood, too, that this was
the end--if all went well! A grim smile came and flickered across Jimmie
Dale's lips. She believed that Hunchback Joe, if caught and trapped,
would squeal to the police. The grim smile deepened. Hunchback Joe
might, or might not, squeal to the police--_but in any case Hunchback
Joe would tell his story_! He, Jimmie Dale, would see to that--whatever
the cost, whatever the consequences, if he had to choke and wring it
from the man's lips. It was a surer way than trusting to the police--it
was the only sure way of reaching the end. The cost! The risk! What did
it matter? What was cost, or risk! Her life was in the balance!

He glanced quickly around him. Would it be as Smarlinghue to-night?
He shook his head. No, if it were really the end, if he won through
to-night, this would be the last time he would ever stand here in the
Sanctuary, and to leave the clothes of Jimmie Dale here, even in so
secure a hiding place as behind that movable section of the
base-board, would impose upon him the _necessity_ of returning--was
but to hamper himself, and, indeed, as likely as not, if hard pressed,
to court disaster.

His glance, strangely whimsical, strangely wistful now, travelled again
over the room. If it was the end to-night, this was his good-by to
Smarlinghue, to Larry the Bat--and the Gray Seal. This was his exit from
the sordid stage of the underworld--forever. Yes, in time, suspicious of
Smarlinghue's continued absence, they would investigate and search the
Sanctuary here; they might even discover that hiding place in the
wall--but what did it matter? They would find only the trappings of a
_character_ that had passed out of existence; and out of that fact the
police and the underworld would be privileged to make what capital they
could! No, it would not be as Smarlinghue that he would work
to-night--he was well enough as he was. He had not worn evening clothes
since that letter came, for the nights had been spent in constant toil,
and the dark suit of tweeds he wore now was not conspicuous. Nor need he
even have recourse to that hiding place again--what he required was
already in his pockets--for days now, in whatever role he had played, he
had been prepared for any emergency.

Jimmie Dale looked at his watch--it was ten minutes after nine--and,
reaching up, turned out the light. A minute more and the French window
was silently opened and closed again, and Jimmie Dale was once more on
the street. Here, walking quickly, but keeping to the less frequented
streets, he headed deeper into the East Side. He would have no need of
Benson, and Benson without further ado at the expiration of the allotted
twenty minutes would obey orders literally and go home. No, he would
have no further need of Benson and the car--Jimmie Dale smiled
curiously, his mind absorbed now in the immediate problem that
confronted him--they worked on a carefully prepared and methodical
schedule, these minions of Clarke or Marre, allowing ample time in each
successive step in their plans that there might be neither confusion nor
mistake in what they did. Well, what was ample time for them, was ample
time for him! It was not far from the tenement where the Tocsin had said
Klanner lived to Baldy Jack's--and Klanner was not due at Baldy Jack's
until ten o'clock.

Under the slouch hat, pulled far down over his eyes, Jimmie Dale's brows
knitted into a frown. It was true then, and his intuition had not been
at fault! It was Clarke who had planned the murder and robbery at the
bank that afternoon--and Hunchback Joe, Clarke's familiar, and his
accomplices who had carried it out. Yes, it had been clever enough--but
difficult enough too! Yet of two alternatives they had chosen the
easiest. The document, containing the secret international arrangements
for gold shipments into the United States, embracing European
commitments, and including transportation details, was always, except
when in the banker's personal possession, carefully locked away in the
bank's vaults. In the daytime then, it was impossible for a stranger to
reach those vaults; and at night time to attempt to force the strongest
vaults in the City of New York, with their intricate electric-alarm
system, was a task from which even Clarke might shrink!

The Tocsin had made it very clear. The document, or documents, never
left the bank's premises; it never left the bank's vaults except when in
the possession of the bank's president in the latter's private office.
Clarke had therefore chosen the line of least resistance--the bank
president's office! And that accounted, he, Jimmie Dale, understood now,
for the sudden failure of the Tocsin's plans three nights ago, since it
accounted evidently for the sudden disappearance of Hunchback Joe, which
had checkmated her on that night and on subsequent nights--for it had
taken those three nights to perfect their plans in the bank, and the
work there had evidently been done under the personal supervision of
Hunchback Joe.

The plan's cleverness and cunning lay in its devilish simplicity--it
required only long, painstaking and laborious preparation. There were,
according to the newspapers, two entrances to the banker's private
office; the customers' entrance from the main rotunda of the bank, and
a rear entrance leading in behind the cages to the working quarters of
the staff, which was separated from the general offices by a short,
narrow, enclosed passage with a second door at the extreme end. The
president's office, as befitted his position, was richly furnished, and
the passage, being in reality but an adjunct to the office itself, had
not been overlooked--it was carpeted with a long Persian rug. That
portion of the basement directly beneath the president's office and the
passage had been partitioned off into a storeroom for old files and
books, and was consequently rarely visited. For the rest, the method
was fairly obvious. The storeroom was ceiled in with wood, which, when
carefully cut away, could be replaced during the daytime, and so hide
all traces of what was going on should any one enter the place. It
required, then, simply a certain number of nights' work--and it had
taken three. An opening had been cut through the flooring into the
passage, and the surface flooring of the passage over the aperture
refitted into place, so that, covered by the rug, there was no
indication that anything was wrong.

The minor details the Tocsin had passed over--but to supply them
required but little effort of the imagination. The president customarily
devoted a certain amount of time each afternoon to the matter in
question, and immediately on his return from lunch always took the
papers from the vault and carried them to his private office. It became,
then, simply necessary that the man, or men, hiding in the basement
should know when the president was _alone_; but this would hardly be a
very difficult matter, for, with nothing but the upper skin of the
flooring left, one had only to post himself in the opening and he could
hear as well, almost, as though he were in the private office itself.
The entrance could then be effected in the security of the little
passage; the rear door of the passage would be silently locked against
interruption; the door leading into the president's office, where the
president sat with his back to the door, would be silently opened--then
a quick leap, soundless on the heavy carpet--the blow of a
blackjack--the limp body caught and lowered to the floor--the documents
secured--the escape.

The escape! Jimmie Dale had turned suddenly into a pitch-black areaway,
and, cautiously now, was making his way to the rear of a three-story
tenement of the poorer class. The escape had naturally been accomplished
in exactly the same way--the rear door unlocked again to obviate any
immediate attention being paid to the passage--the murderer lowering
himself through the aperture, and, as he replaced the flooring,
manipulating the rug so that it would drop innocently back into place--
and the exit from the basement would of course already have been
provided for. Jimmie Dale's face was hard. The newspapers, going to
press almost at the moment the murder was discovered, though giving a
general description of the bank's premises, had had no opportunity to
furnish details of the ensuing police investigation; but that the police
would eventually discover the hole in the flooring was obvious; that
they would also discover it without much delay was equally obvious--_and
it had been intended that they should_. Clarke's object, acting through
Hunchback Joe, had been to provide only for the _immediate_ escape--and
after that, with callous deviltry, he proposed to utilise this very
means of escape to cover up the tracks of the tools who were doing his
work, and, backed with another murder, to put the crime upon another's
shoulders!

Jimmie Dale had halted now to survey his surroundings, and, his eyes
grown accustomed to the darkness, he could make out a door opening on
the small yard in which he stood, and to the right of the door an
unlighted and closed window. That was Klanner's window. He did not
know Klanner, the bank's janitor--except that he knew him as an
_innocent_ man, as the proposed victim of as foul and black and
pitiless a conspiracy as had ever been hatched in a human brain! Nor
did he know Hunchback Joe--save by reputation. The man was a
comparative newcomer in the underworld. He had bought out a small
ship-chandler's business, a rickety, out-at-the-heels place on an
equally rickety old wharf on the East River; and it was generally
understood that he was a "fence" of a sort, making a speciality of,
and catering to, a certain extensive and vicious class of thieves, the
wharf rats, who infested the city's shipping--his ostensible business
of a ship-chandler enabling him to handle and dispose of that class of
stolen property with comparative immunity.

Jimmie Dale was crouching at the door, a little steel picklock in his
fingers. It was fairly evident now that the underworld in general had
but an extremely superficial acquaintance with Hunchback Joe; that
Hunchback Joe's minor depredations against the law were but a cloak
to--the mental soliloquy ended abruptly. Jimmie Dale drew suddenly back
from the door, and, retreating along the wall of the building, crouched
down in the darkness beneath the window. _What was that_? It came
again----a step, stealthy, cautious, from the areaway--and now another
step--there were two men there.

The picklock was back in his pocket, and, in its place, his fingers
closed around the stock of his automatic. A shadow showed around the
corner of the building, a queer, twisted, misshapen shadow--it was
followed by another. Jimmie Dale drew in his breath softly. Hunchback
Joe! He had rather expected that the man would already have come and
gone, that this initial act of the brutal drama staged for the night's
work would already have been performed. Well, it did not matter! There
was still time--time to wait while Hunchback Joe did his work here, time
in turn to do his own and still reach Baldy Jack's before ten o'clock.

From somewhere in the distance came the roar and rattle of an elevated
train; from a neighbouring tenement came the strains of a wheezy
phonograph. The figures were at the rear door of the tenement now. A
minute passed; the door opened, closed, the two figures had
disappeared--and then, in a flash, Jimmie Dale had straightened up, and
a steel jimmy was working with deft, silent speed at the window sash. He
had the time it would take Hunchback Joe to reach and open Klanner's
door from the hall inside--no more. And if he could watch Hunchback Joe
at work it would simplify to a very large extent his own task when
Hunchback Joe was through; there would be no necessity for a _search_,
and--ah! The window gave. He raised it noiselessly, reached inside and
pulled down the roller shade to within an inch of the sill, and pulled
the window down again to a little below the level of the shade. The
opening left was unnoticeable--but he could now both see and hear.

There came a faint sound from within--the creak of a slowly opening
door, a step across the floor, then the flare of a match, and the light
in the room went on.

Jimmie Dale was drawn back now against the wall at one corner of the
window, his eyes on a level with the sill. He had made no mistake about
that misshapen, twisted shadow--it was Hunchback Joe. Jimmie Dale's eyes
travelled to the hunchback's companion--and narrowed as he recognised
the other. The man was well enough known in the underworld, a hanger-on
for the most part, a confirmed hop-fighter, though when not under the
influence of the drug he was counted one of the cleverest second-story
workers and lock-pickers in the Bad Lands--Hoppy Meggs, they called him.
Again Jimmie Dale's eyes shifted--to Hunchback Joe once more. Like some
abnormal and repulsive toad the man looked. His shoulders were thrust
upward until they seemed to merge with the head itself, the body was
crooked and bent forward, due to the ugly deformity of the man's back,
while the face was carried at an upward tilt, as though tardily to
rectify the curvature of the spine, and out of the sinister, bearded
face, the beard tawny and ill-kempt, little black eyes from under
protruding brows blinked ceaselessly.

A sudden fury, an anger hot and passionate seized upon Jimmie Dale; and
there came an impulse almost overpowering to play another role, a
deadlier, grimmer role than that of spectator! A toad, he had called the
man. He was wrong--the man was a devil in human guise. He crushed back
the impulse, a cold smile on his lips. He could afford to wait! It was
not time yet. There was still the game to play out. He would have an
opportunity to give full sway to impulse before the night was out,
_before_ the Tocsin should have set the Secret Service men upon the
other's trail--before midnight came.

Hunchback Joe was speaking now.

"Go on, Hoppy; get busy!" he ordered sharply, jerking his hand toward a,
trunk that stood at the foot of the cheap iron bedstead. "Get that
opened. Hurry up! And see that you don't leave any scratches on it,
or--you understand!" He leaned forward, leering with sudden savagery at
his companion.

Hoppy Meggs moved forward, dropped on his knees in front of the trunk,
examined the lock for an instant--and grunted in contempt.

"Aw, it's a cinch! Say, I could do it wid a hairpin!" he grinned--and a
moment later threw back the lid.

Hunchback Joe drew a short, ugly blackjack, a packet of papers, and
a large roll of bills from his pocket, and tossed the articles into
the trunk.

"Lock it again!" he instructed tersely.

Hoppy Meggs hesitated--he was staring into the trunk.

"Say, youse don't mean dat--do youse?" he demanded heavily. "Not dem
papers dat--"

Hunchback Joe's smile was not pleasant.

"Lock the trunk!" he said curtly. And then, as Hoppy Meggs closed down
the lid: "I didn't bring you here to offer any advice; but as I don't
want you to labour under the impression that, not having any brains of
your own, there aren't, therefore, any brains at all to stand between
you and the police, I'll tell you. If they recover the original
document, besides fixing the crime on Klanner, they'll figure they've
got it back before any harm has been done, and before it has been passed
on to whoever had paid down the little cash advance to Klanner for the
job in the shape of that roll there--eh? And figuring that way they
won't change any of the plans or details as they stand now in those
papers--eh? And meanwhile a _copy_ is just as good to the man who is
coughing up to you and me and the rest of us for this, isn't it?"

"My Gawd!" said Hoppy Meggs in fervent admiration, as he locked
the trunk.

"Yes," said Hunchback Joe--and the snarl was back in his voice. "And
now you see to it that you've got the rest of what _you've_ got to do
straight. It won't pay you to make any mistakes! Let the Mole's crowd
start something before you pull the lights--it's got to look like a
drunken row where the bystander, with nobody but himself to blame for
being in such a place as that, _accidentally_ gets his! And you tip the
Kid off again to leave Klanner by his lonesome at the table before the
trouble starts, or he'll get in bad himself. The Kid can pull a fake
play to make up with some moll across the room. Klanner's no friend of
his, he never saw the man before--you understand?--just ran into him
outside the dance hall, if any questions are asked. But I don't want
any questions, and there won't be any if he plays his hand right. Tell
him I said his job's over once he has Klanner inside--and to stand from
under. Get me?"

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