Anonymous - "The Book Of The Thousand Nights And One Night, Volume I"

Norman Douglas - "Fountains In The Sand"

A. C. Laut - "Lords of the North"

G. A. Henty - "A Final Reckoning"

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




With a low, terrified cry, the other let the flashlight fall as though
from nerveless fingers, and shrank back against the safe.

"Now put your hands above your head!" directed Jimmie Dale curtly.

The man obeyed.

Dark, frightened eyes stared out at Jimmie Dale from behind the mask
that covered Birdie Lee's face. Swiftly, deftly, Jimmie Dale felt over
the other's clothing for a weapon. There was none. Then, himself in
darkness, the blinding light in Birdie Lee's face, he pulled off the
other's mask, and with a grim, quick touch of his revolver muzzle traced
out the white, pulsing, triangular scar on the man's forehead.

"So you're up to your old tricks again, are you, Birdie?" he inquired
coldly. "Five years up the river wasn't enough for you--eh?"

The man drew himself up suddenly, and, squaring his shoulders, made
as though to speak--and then, with a swift, hopeless gesture,
turned his back, and, leaning over the top of the safe, buried his
head in his arms.

A strange smile touched Jimmie Dale's lips. He stooped down, picked up
the revolver from the floor, slipped it into his pocket, bent over
Slimmy Jack for an instant to assure himself that the man was
dead--then stepping back to the safe, he laid his hand on the
ex-convict's shoulder.

"Birdie," he said quietly, "could you open this safe if you wanted to?"

The man swung sharply around, the prison pallor of his face a pitiful,
deathlike colour in the flashlight's rays.

"Who are you?" he asked thickly.

"A friend perhaps--if you can open that safe," Jimmie Dale answered.

A puzzled look crept into Birdie's eyes.

"W-what do you mean?" he stammered.

"I mean that I want the _proof_ that you are straight," Jimmie Dale said
softly. "I've been here in the room all the time. I want to know whether
you were stalling on Slimmy Jack, or not. And I want to know, if you
_were_ stalling, how you came to be here with him."

"That's a queer spiel," said Birdie Lee, in a troubled way. "I thought
at first you were a bull--but you don't talk like one. Mabbe you're
playin' with me; but, whether you are or not, I guess it won't make much
difference what I say. You couldn't help me if you wanted to now--with
him dead there"--he jerked his head toward the form on the floor.

"Tell me, anyhow," insisted Jimmie Dale quietly.

Birdie's hand lifted and swept across his eyes.

"Well, all right," he said, after a moment; "I'll tell you. Me and
Slimmy used to work together all the time in Chicago and out West after
I left New York, and until I came back here one day and pulled one
alone and got sent up for it. Well, to-day, when they let me out of
Sing Sing, Slimmy had come on from Chicago and was waitin' for me. He
had a deal all fixed in Chicago that we was to pull together, a big
one, and this little one here was to keep us goin' until the big one
came off. He was with Malay John in this room to-day when a gambler
from up the State somewhere blew in with a roll of about three thousand
dollars, and handed it over to Malay to keep while he knocked around
town for a day or two. Malay put the money in this safe here, and
that's what Slimmy was after for a starter. I told Slimmy I was all
through--that I was goin' straight. He wouldn't believe me. I guess you
don't. I guess nobody will. I got a record that's mabbe too black to
live down, and--oh, well, what's the use! I meant to live decent, but I
guess any chance I had is gone now." His voice choked. "That's the way
I had doped it out up there in the pen--that I was goin' straight.
That's all, isn't it? I told Slimmy I was through--but Slimmy held
something over me that was good for twenty years. What could I do? I
said I'd come in on this, figurin' that I could queer the game by
stallin'. I--I tried it. If you were here, you saw me. I pretended that
I couldn't open the safe, and--"

"_Can_ you?" inquired Jimmie Dale gently.

"That thing!" Birdie Lee smiled mirthlessly. "Why it's only a double
combin--"

"Open it, then," prompted Jimmie Dale.

Birdie Lee stooped impulsively to the dial of the safe; hesitated, then
straightened up again, and shook his head.

"No," he said. "I guess I'll take my medicine. I don't know who you are.
I might just as well have opened it for Slimmy as for you. It looks as
though you were after the same thing he was."

Jimmie Dale smiled.

"Stand a little away from the safe, Birdie--there," he instructed. And,
as the other obeyed wonderingly, Jimmie Dale knelt to the dial. "You
see, I trust you not to move," he said. The dial was whirling under the
sensitive fingers, and, like Birdie before him, his ear was pressed
against the face of the safe.

The moments went by. Birdie Lee was watching in an eager, fascinated,
startled way. Came at last a sharp, metallic click, as Jimmie Dale flung
the handle over--and the door swung wide. He shut it again
instantly--and locked it.

"It's your turn, Birdie," he said calmly. "You see that, as far as I
or my intentions are concerned, it doesn't matter whether you open
it or not."

"Who are you?" There was awed admiration in Birdie's voice.
"You're slicker than ever I was, even in the old days. For God's
sake, who are you?"

"Never mind," said Jimmie Dale. "Open the safe, if you can."

"I can open it all right," said Birdie, moving slowly forward; "and
quicker than you did, because I got the combination when I was workin'
on it with Slimmy watchin'. Throw the light on the knob, will you?"

It was barely an instant before Birdie Lee swung back the door.

"Now lock it again," directed Jimmie Dale. And then, as the other
obeyed, he held out his hand to Birdie Lee. "You're clear, Birdie."

A tremor came to the other's face.

"Clear?" repeated Birdie unsteadily.

"Yes--you get your chance. That's one reason why I came here
to-night--to spoil Slimmy Jack's play, to see that you got your chance
if you really wanted it, as"--he added whimsically--"I was informed you
did. Go ahead, Birdie--make your get-away--you're free."

But Birdie Lee shook his head.

"No," he said, and his voice caught again. "It's no good." He pointed to
the still form on the floor. "I guess I go up for more than
safe-crackin' this time. I--I guess it'll be the _chair_. When they find
him here--dead--shot--they'll call it murder--and they'll put it onto
me. The police know we have been together for years. They know he came
here to-day when I got out. We've been seen together to-day. We--we were
seen _quarrelling_ this afternoon in a saloon over on the Bowery. That
was when I was refusin' to start the old play again. They'd have what
looked like an open and shut game against me. I wouldn't have a hope."

It was a moment before Jimmie Dale answered. What the man said was
true--he would not have a hope--for an honest life--after five years in
the penitentiary. He lifted his flashlight again and played it over
Birdie Lee. They showed, those years, in the pallor, the drawn lines,
the wan misery in the other's face.

And then Jimmie Dale's lips set firmly under his mask. There was a way
to save the man. It was something he had never intended to do again--but
it was worth the price--to save this man. It would be like a bombshell
exploded in the underworld; it would arouse the police to infuriated
activity; it would stir New York to its depths--but, after all, it could
not touch Smarlinghue. It would only instill the belief that somehow
Larry the Bat had escaped from the tenement fire; it would only mean a
hunt for Larry the Bat day and night--but Larry the Bat no longer
existed--and it would save this man.

He clamped the flashlight between his knees, leaving his hands free, and
from the leather girdle drew the old-time metal case, thin, like a
cigarette case, and from the case, with a pair of little tweezers that
precluded the possibility of telltale finger prints, lifted out a small,
diamond-shaped, gray-coloured paper seal, adhesive on one side, which he
moistened now with his tongue--and, stooping quickly, attached it to the
dead man's sleeve.

There was a sharp, startled cry from Birdie Lee.

"_The Gray Seal_! You're--you're Larry the Bat! They passed the word
around in Sing Sing that you were dead, and--"

"And it will be the Gray Seal who is wanted for this--not you," said
Jimmie Dale quietly. Then, almost sharply: "Now make your get-away,
Birdie. Hurry! You and I part here. And the greater distance you put
between yourself and this place to-night the better."

But the man seemed as though robbed of the power of movement--and then
his lips quivered, and his eyes filled.

"But you," he faltered, "you--you're doing this for me, and I--I--"

Jimmie Dale caught the other's arm in a kindly grip.

"Good-night, Birdie," he said significantly. "I'm the last man now that
you could afford to be seen with. You understand that. And I guess you
can understand that I've reasons for not wanting to be seen myself.
You've got your chance; give me mine to get away--alone." He pushed the
man abruptly toward the door.

Still Birdie Lee hesitated; then catching Jimmie Dale's hand, he
wrung it hard--and, with a half choked sob, turned and made his way
from the room.

For an instant Jimmie Dale stood looking after the other through the
darkness, listening as the stealthy steps descended the stairs--then
suddenly he knelt again beside the dead man on the floor.

"You were clever, Slimmy!" he murmured. "Smarlinghue wouldn't have had
a chance of getting out from under this break--if your plans had
worked out! And I didn't know you, of course, because you were a
Chicago crook."

He took off the dead man's mask, and played his flashlight for a moment
over the cold, set features.

A queer smile twisted Jimmie Dale's lips.

It was "Clancy of Headquarters"!




CHAPTER IV


THE DIAMOND PENDANT

The "murder" of Slimmy Jack had evidently been discovered too late for
the make-up of the early morning papers; but from the noon editions
onward it had been flung across the front pages in glaring type--even
the most stately journals, for the nonce aroused out of their dignified
calm, indulging in "display" headlines that, quite apart from the mere
text, could not but have startled their equally stately and dignified
readers. The Gray Seal, the leech that fed upon society, the murderer,
the thief, the menace to the lives and property of law-abiding citizens,
the scourge that for years New York had combated in the no more
effective fashion than that of gnashing its teeth in impotent fury, had
suddenly reappeared with a fresh murder to his credit. And New York had
thought him dead!

Jimmie Dale, leaning back on the seat of his limousine as the car, now
halting at a corner, now racing with a hundred others to snatch a block
or two of distance before the next monarchial traffic officer of Fifth
Avenue should hold it up again a victim to the evening rush, turned from
first one to another of the pile of papers beside him. His strong,
clean-shaven face was grave; and there was a sober light in the dark,
steady eyes. In the St. James Club, which he had just left, perhaps the
most sedate, certainly the most exclusive club in New York, it had been
the one topic of conversation. Elderly gentlemen, not usually given to
excitability, had joined with the younger members in a hectic
denunciation of the police as criminally inefficient, and had made dire
and absurdly vain threats as to what they, electing themselves for the
moment a supreme court of last resort, proposed to do under the
circumstances. The irony was exquisite, if they had but known! Also
there was the element of humour, only there was a grim tinge to the
humour that robbed it of its mirth--some day they _might_ know!

He glanced out of the window, as the car was held up again. Everybody in
the crowd, that waited on the corners for the stream of traffic to pass,
seemed to have their eyes glued to their newspapers--even Benson, his
chauffeur, during the moment of inaction, was surreptitiously reading a
paper which he had flattened out on the seat beside him!

Jimmie Dale's eyes reverted to the newspaper in his hand, one of the
most conservative. There was no mistaking the tenor of the leading
article on the editorial page:

"It is not so much that a thug and criminal known as Slimmy Jack should
have been murdered by another wretch of his own breed; indeed, that such
should prey upon one another is far from being a matter of regret, for
we might hope in time for the extermination of them all by the simple
process of mutual attrition and at correspondingly little expense to
ourselves--but that this so-called Gray Seal should still prove to be
alive and at large is a matter that concerns every citizen personally.
He does not confine his attentions to the Slimmy Jacks. The criminal
records of the past few years reek with his acts, that run the gamut of
every crime in the decalogue, crimes for the most part actuated
apparently by no other motive than a monstrously innate thirst for
notoriety--and the victims, for the most part, too, have been the
innocent and the defenceless. What is the end of this to be? If the
police cannot cope with this blood-mad ruffian, is New York to sit idly
by and submit to another reign of terror instituted and carried on under
the nose of authority by this inhuman jackal? If so, we are committing a
crime against ourselves, we are insulting our intelligence, and--"

The man who had written that was a personal friend! Jimmie Dale threw
the paper down, and picked up another, and after that another. They
were pretty well all alike. They rehearsed the discovery of Larry the
Bat as the Gray Seal; they rehearsed the story of the fire in the
tenement of six months ago in which it was supposed that Larry the Bat
had perished--they differed only in the virulence, a mere choice of
words, with which they now demanded that this Larry the Bat, alias the
Gray Seal, should be dug out like a rat from his hole, and the city be
freed once and for all, and with no loophole for misadventure this
time, of this "ogre of hell," as one paper put it, that was gorging
itself upon New York.

The furrows gathered on Jimmie Dale's forehead, as he folded up the
papers, and stared at his chauffeur's back through the plate-glass front
of the car. He had known that the reappearance of the Gray Seal would
arouse the community to a wild pitch of excitement, but he had far
underestimated the effect. He could gauge it better now, though--he had
only to look out of the windows at the passers-by. And this was only the
respectable element of the city whose head and front was the police, and
dangerous enough for all the bitter taunts, gibes and recriminations
with which the police was maligned! There was still the far more
dangerous element of the underworld! He had not been in that quarter
since he had left Malay John's the night before, but he could picture it
now well enough. God help him if he ever fell into those hands! In dens
and dives, in the dark corners of that sordid world, they would be
whispering blasphemous vows of vengeance against him one to
another--and, relative to the hate and fear that welded them into a
single unit, the police sank into insignificance. More than one of their
elite had gone to the electric chair through the instrumentality of the
Gray Seal; more than one was serving at that moment a long term behind
penitentiary walls. Whose turn was it to be next? They needed no
editorial prod in the underworld to run Larry the Bat to earth--there
was the deeper spur of self-preservation! They knew who the Gray Seal
was now, and the first blow that he had aimed upon his reappearance had
apparently been at one of themselves. Their search for Larry the Bat
would not be an indifferent one!

It was true that Larry the Bat no longer existed, that in that respect
he was encompassed by a certain security he had not enjoyed before, but
how long would that last? One slip, one moment off his guard, would
wreck all that in the twinkling of an eye. Between the police and the
underworld New York would be scoured from end to end for Larry the Bat;
and, failing to find trace or sign of their quarry, how long would it be
before they would put more faith in the evidence of the tenement fire
than in the evidence of the Magpie, upon whose testimony alone Larry the
Bat had been accepted as the Gray Seal, and believe again that Larry the
Bat was dead, and that therefore they had not yet solved the identity of
the Gray Seal!

He had never intended that the Gray Seal should ever have been heard of
again. He shrugged his shoulders philosophically. One's intentions in
this world did not always count for much! His hand had been forced, and
he had paid the price to save Birdie Lee. He could not regret that!
Whatever the consequences, the price had not been too high, and yet--his
eyes roved again over the crowded thoroughfare. A car edged by his own.
Two men were in the tonneau. One held a newspaper which he thumped with
a menacing fist as he talked. The door windows of Jimmie Dale's
limousine were down, and he caught two bitter, angry words:

"..._Gray Seal_--"

The sober expression on Jimmie Dale's face deepened. Only a fool would
attempt to minimise or underestimate the meaning of what he saw around
him. A hint, for instance, that he, Jimmie Dale, millionaire clubman,
riding here in his limousine, was the Gray Seal, and this great,
teeming, though orderly, Fifth Avenue would be transformed like magic
into a seething, screaming whirl of madmen, and--he did not care to
follow that trend of thought. He was quite well aware what would happen!

The car, close up against the curb, stopped once more in a traffic
blockade. Smarlinghue was the most vital factor to be considered now,
for--he caught his breath quickly. Through the open window of the
limousine a white envelope fluttered and fell at his feet. The car was
moving forward again. For the fraction of a second Jimmie Dale did not
move, save to straighten rigidly as though from some sharply
administered galvanic shock; and then, with a low cry--"the
Tocsin!"--he was at the door, his head thrust out through the window,
his fingers mechanically wrenching at the door handle. A mass of people
were surging across the street toward the opposite corner. Eagerly his
eyes swept over them; he pushed the door open a little as though to step
out--and shut it again quickly, as, with a yell of warning, another
car, jockeying for position as his own moved out into the stream of
traffic, swept by from behind.

It had been quite useless--he knew that, he had known it subconsciously
even at the moment when he had sprung to his feet. Apart entirely from
the crowd, she would undoubtedly be in some clever disguise, and he
could not have recognised her in any event.

He stooped, picked up the envelope, and sat down again quietly, his eyes
travelling swiftly in the direction of his chauffeur. Benson's back was
still imperturbably turned toward him. In the roar of dozens of motors
all starting forward at once, Benson evidently had not heard the yell of
warning, or, if he had, had been too much occupied with his own immediate
duties to pay any attention to it.

Jimmie Dale tore the envelope open; and, in a sort of grim, feverish
haste, unfolded the sheets which it had contained.

"Dear Philanthropic Crook--since you _will_ be called that," he read. A
quick, eager flush came to his cheeks. She knew how, since she had shown
last night that she knew him as Smarlinghue, that, despite all her own
brave, resolute protests, he was determined to fight this thing out to
the end--separately, if she would not let him join forces with her--but,
in any case, to the end. It was the old name again--Dear Philanthropic
Crook! Did it mean that she had surrendered, then, at last, that she had
finally accepted the situation, and that he was to enter this shadowland
of hers beside her! The flush died away. It was only his own wish that
had been father to the thought. This was another "call to arms" of quite
a different nature, and born, not out of her own peril, but born, as in
the old days again, out of the maze of her strange environment. "You
have set New York ablaze, you have made me far more afraid for you than
I am for myself; but I cannot see where there is any danger here, or
else I would not have written this. You--" He was reading impetuously
now, his brain, alert and keen, sorting and sifting out, as it were, the
salient, vital points, "... old Colonel Milford and his wife...
Louisiana... letter... family heirloom... French descent... old setting,
three large diamonds pendant from necklet of smaller ones... ten to
twelve thousand dollars... steel bond box... lower right-hand drawer of
desk... plan of second floor... West 88th Street..."

He turned the page, studied for a moment the carefully drawn plan that
covered the next sheet, then turned to the third and last page--and
suddenly his face hardened. He had been called a jackal by the
papers--but here were two who bore a clearer title to the name! He knew
them both--Jake Kisnieff, better known as Old Attic in the underworld,
as crooked as his own bent and twisted form, a miserly, cunning
"fence," crafty enough, if report were true, to have garnered a huge,
ill-gotten harvest under the nose of the police; and the other, one
self-styled Henry Thorold, alias whatever occasion might require,
smooth, polished, educated, the most dangerous of all types of crook,
was the brains of a certain clique whose versatile operations were
restricted only between the limits of porch-climbing and the callous
removal, via the murder route, of any one when deemed expedient for
either personal or financial reasons!

Jimmie Dale read on to the end of the page. His jaws were clamped
together now, the square, determined chin out-thrust; and while one hand
held the letter, the other curled into a clenched fist. It was dirty
work--vile, miserable work--a coward's work! And then Jimmie Dale smiled
grimly, as his eyes fell upon the glaring headline of the paper on the
top of the pile beside him. Perhaps the _morning_ papers would carry
other headlines that would be still more startling!

He began to study the several sheets again, critically, carefully this
time. There should be no danger here, she said. He knew what she
meant--that she counted on his being able to nip the whole scheme in the
bud. He shook his head thoughtfully. That might be true; he might be
able to do that, probably would, for it was still very early; but if
not--what then? He glanced out of the window--they were just turning
into Riverside Drive. He looked at his watch. It wanted but a few
minutes of seven--progress up the Avenue had been unusually slow. He
tore the letter into small fragments, and reaching out through the
window, let the pieces flutter away in the wind. It was none too early
at that, and it was unfortunate that he must first of all go home--there
were certain things there indispensable to the night's work. On the
other hand, it was fortunate that he did not have to lose even more time
by being obliged instead to go to the new Sanctuary for what he needed,
fortunate that he had been "Jimmie Dale" last night when he had left
Malay John's, and that he had gone directly home from there.

The car stopped. Benson sprang from his seat, and opened the door.

"Don't put up the car yet, Benson; I am going a little further
uptown," said Jimmie Dale, with a pleasant nod--and ran up the steps
of his house.

Jason, his butler, opened the door for him.

"I shall not be dining at home to-night, Jason." Jimmie Dale handed over
his hat--not a suitable one for the evening's special requirements.

The old man's face wrinkled up in disappointment.

"That's too bad, sir, Master Jim." Jason took liberties; but they were
the genuine heart liberties of a lifetime's service--and why not, since,
as he was fond of saying, he had dandled his Master Jim as a baby on his
knee! "There was to be just what you are especially fond of to-night,
Master Jim; the cook made a particular point of--"

"Yes; I know." Jimmie Dale's hand squeezed the old man's shoulder in
friendly fashion. It was not the cook, but Jason, who would have
originated the menu with the painstaking care and thoughtfulness of one
dealing with a life-and-death matter. "But it can't be helped. I didn't
know until just a little while ago, or I would have telephoned. I am
going right out again."

"Very good, sir," Jason bowed. "Your clothes, Master Jim, are--"

"I shan't dress, Jason," said Jimmie Dale--and, crossing the reception
hall, with its rich, oriental rugs, he ran up the wide staircase, opened
the door of his "den," locked it behind him, and, switching on the
lights, began to strip off his coat and vest, as he hurried toward the
further end of the great, spacious, luxuriously appointed room that ran
the entire depth of the house.

He threw coat and vest on a nearby chair; and, sweeping the portieres
away from in front of a little alcove, knelt down before the
barrel-shaped safe with its multitudinous glistening knobs, that, in
the days gone by when he had been with his father in the business of
manufacturing safes, the business that had amassed the fortune he had
inherited, he had designed himself. His fingers flew over the dials.
He swung the outer and the inner doors open, reached inside, took out
the leather girdle with its burglar kit, and fastened it around his
waist. Then, slipping an automatic and a flashlight into his pocket,
he closed the safe, drew the portieres together, and put on his coat
and vest again.

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