The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale

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Larry the Bat edged around the table, and, covering Meighan with his
revolver, backed to the door.

"Well, so long, Meighan!" he said softly, from the threshold. "T'ink of
me when dey pins de medal on yer breast fer dis!"

And then Jimmie Dale laid Meighan's revolver down on the floor of the
room, and locked the door on the outside with a pick-lock, and went down
the stairs.

CHAPTER IX

'WARE THE WOLF

Jimmie Dale's fingers, in the darkness, were deftly tying around his
body the leather girdle with its finely-tempered, compact kit of
burglar's tools. It was strange, this note of hers to-night--strange,
even, where all the notes that she had ever written had been strange! It
had been left half an hour ago at the door of the St. James Club--and he
had hastened here to the Sanctuary. It was curiously strange! Three
nights ago, he had seen Frenchy Virat safely in the hands of the police,
and Frenchy Virat was still safely in police custody--but he, Jimmie
Dale, was not yet done with Frenchy Virat, it seemed! The note had made
that quite clear. There was still the Wolf; and it was the Wolf that
filled this anxious, hurried word from her to-night.

The Wolf! He knew the Wolf well--as Larry the Bat in the old days he had
even known the other personally as Smarlinghue of to-day he had
progressed that far into the inner ring of the underworld again as to be
on nodding terms with the Wolf. The man was a power in the
underworld--and a devil in human guise. In a career extending back over
many years, a career in which no single crime in the decalogue had been
slighted, the Wolf had successfully managed to evade the clutches of the
law until his name had become a synonym for craft and cunning in the Bad
Lands, and the man himself the object of the vicious hero-worship of
that sordid world where murder cradled and foul things lived. The
police had marked the man, marked him a score of times; in their records
a hundred unsolved crimes pointed to the Wolf--but they had never "got"
him--always the thread of evidence that seemed to lead to that queer
house near Chatham Square was broken on the way--and the Wolf, with
steadily increasing prestige and authority in gangland, laughed in the
faces of the police, and here and there a plain-clothes man,
over-zealous perhaps, _died_.

That was the Wolf--but that was not all! Jimmie Dale's face hardened
into grim lines, as he lifted out from under the baseboard
"Smarlinghue's" frayed and seedy coat, and put it on. Between the Wolf
and the Gray Seal there was now a personal feud. Above the reek of those
whisperings in the underworld, above that muttered slogan, "_death to
the Gray Seal,_" that men flung at each other from the twisted corners
of their mouths, the Wolf had snarled, and the underworld had listened,
and the underworld was waiting now--the Wolf had pledged himself to rid
the Bad Lands of the terror that had crept upon it. He had sworn, and
staked his reputation on his pledge, to "get" Larry the Bat, _alias_ the
Gray Seal--and in the eyes of the underworld, as the underworld sighed
with relief, it was already accomplished, for the Wolf had never failed.

Jimmie Dale stooped down, felt in under the baseboard again, and took
out a little make-up box. The Wolf's incentive was not one of
philanthropy toward his fellow denizens of crimeland, whose ranks had
been thinned by those who, thanks to the Gray Seal, had gone "up the
river," some of them, many of them, to that room in Sing Sing's
death-house from which none ever returned alive; nor was it, to give the
Wolf his due, through a personal fear that his own career might end, as
those others' had, at the hands of the Gray Seal; nor, again, was it
through any tardy, eleventh-hour conversion, any belated edging toward
the way of grace that found expression in a desire to array himself on
the side of those representing the forces of law and order. It was none
of these things that actuated the Wolf--it was Frenchy Virat, _alias_
one Kenleigh, who was awaiting trial in the Tombs. Frenchy Virat was the
Wolf's bosom friend!

The wheezy, air-choked gas-jet spluttered into a blue flame, as Jimmie
Dale lighted it. It disclosed, in shadow, the battered easel, the dirty
canvases, some finished, some but tentative daubs, that banked the wall
in disorder opposite the small French window, whose shade was closely
drawn; it crept dimly into the far corner of the room and disclosed the
cheap cot, unmade, the blanket upon it rumpled in negligent untidiness;
it fell full, such as its fulness was, upon the rickety table that was
littered with unwashed dishes and sticky paint tubes, and, at one end of
the table, on an evening newspaper, and, beside the newspaper, the
Tocsin's note and a newspaper clipping.

Jimmie Dale sat down at the table, brushed the dishes and paint tubes
together into a heap, and propped up against them a cracked and streaked
mirror. He opened his make-up box, and as, swiftly, with masterly touch,
the grey, sickly pallor that was Smarlinghue's transformed his face, and
as, from little distorting pieces of wax, there came into being the
hollow cheeks, the thin, extended lips, the widened nostrils, he kept
glancing at the newspaper, reading again an article that was set, on the
front page, under heavy type captions--the article which was identical
with the clipping, and which latter the Tocsin had enclosed with her
note, lest he should not have seen the original himself.

UNIDENTIFIED BODY FOUND UNDER PIER IN NORTH RIVER

VICTIM OF FOUL PLAY

FACE IS MUTILATED BEYOND RECOGNITION

The details as set forth in the "story" were gruesomely interesting
enough from a morbid point of view; but from the point of view of the
police they were both meagre and unsatisfactory. It was murder
unquestionably--and murder of a most brutal character. The headline
had epitomised it--the face was mutilated beyond recognition. Every
belonging, obviously with the design to prevent, or at least retard,
identification, had been stripped from the body. One point alone
appeared to be established, and that, if anything, but added to the
mystery which surrounded the crime. According to medical opinion, the
murder had been committed but a very short time before the body was
discovered; and, since the victim had been found at three o'clock
that afternoon, the body must have been thrown into the water in
broad daylight.

Jimmie Dale worked on--his fingers seeming to fly with ever-increasing
speed. There was no time to lose; every minute, every second, counted
against him. If he could only have acted on the instant, as Jimmie Dale,
when he had received the note at the club! But he had not had that
leather girdle at the club--no blue-steel tools that would be needed, no
mask, and he had not been armed--everything had been here in the
Sanctuary. And, once here, since he had been forced to lose that much
time, he had risked a little more, precious as the moments were, for
the advantages, the safety, the freedom of movement, afforded by the
character of Smarlinghue. However, it was still but barely eleven
o'clock, and the chances were that the Wolf would hardly have deemed it
late enough as yet to set to work. On the other hand--well, on the other
hand, if the Wolf had proved the early bird, then, perhaps, he and the
Wolf would have, in another place and time to-night, a more personal
reckoning than was anticipated in the Tocsin's plan!

His eyes picked up snatches of her note, as they skimmed it
swiftly again.

"... The Wolf ... old storehouse on river front ... through trap into
the water ... old Webb ... Spider Webb ... ten thousand dollar
Moorcliffe jewel robbery ... cash box ... safe behind panelling in
bedroom directly opposite the door ... false bottom ... afraid of the
Wolf ... last few days ... unfinished ... Wolf does not know ... man and
wife upstairs ... old couple ... keep house for the Spider ... no
suspicion that anything has happened ..." And then, at the end, a more
personal, intimate touch: "Jimmie, it is not to save some one else that
I have written this to-night, for that is now too late--it is to save
_you_. The Wolf is dangerous and I am afraid. You know that he has sworn
to trap you. He is cunning, Jimmie--do not underestimate him. That is
why I have written this--if you succeed to-night ..."

Jimmie Dale's fingers were tearing the note now into infinitesimal
shreds, and, with it, the newspaper clipping. The newspaper itself he
crumpled up and tossed into the corner. He crossed the room, replaced
the make-up box in its hiding place, put back the movable section of the
base-board, turned out the light--and a minute later, Smarlinghue,
unkempt, stoop-shouldered, let himself out, not by the French window
through which he had entered stealthily in the evening clothes of Jimmie
Dale, but unconcernedly, as was the right of any tenant, by the door
that opened on the ground-floor passage of the tenement, and shuffled
down the street.

The Wolf--and Spider Webb--and Larry the Bat! It was a curious trio!
Smarlinghue's lips, perhaps because the wax beneath was not yet moulded
comfortably into place, twitched queerly. One of them was dead--the
Spider. There remained--the Wolf and Larry the Bat! No, he did not
underestimate the Wolf--only a fool, and a blinded fool, would do that.
The Wolf had shown his fangs in deadly enough fashion that morning--with
a brutal murder, craftily planned, and hellishly executed! And yet the
Wolf was quite hopelessly illogical! It was no secret in the underworld
that the Wolf and Spider Webb had long worked together, and that the
Spider was a close friend of the Wolf. Yet the Wolf had murdered the
Spider, and at the same time had found a basis for his oath to end Larry
the Bat, because Larry the Bat had been instrumental in handing over to
the police a _friend_ of the Wolf!

Smarlinghue slouched on along the street, but the "slouch" covered the
ground at an amazing rate of speed. He had not far to go--but neither
had he a moment that he dared lose. Spider Webb's old antique shop, but
a few blocks away, nestled in a squalid little courtyard just west of
the Bowery, and on the same side of the Bowery as the Sanctuary.

Some one, out of the shadows of the street, flung him a good-night.
Smarlinghue mumbled his acknowledgment from the corner of his mouth, and
hurried along.

His thoughts were still on the Wolf. He had not exhausted the sum of the
Wolf's digressions from the realms of the logical! In the old days there
had been an intimacy even between the Wolf and Larry the Bat. That
underground passage from the shed into that queer house near Chatham
Square, for instance--which was known only to the _most_ intimate! But
perhaps the Wolf had forgotten, or perhaps even the Wolf had never known
he had been on quite such intimate terms with--Larry the Bat.

Jimmie Dale glanced behind him. There was no one in sight for the
moment. He was at the corner of a lane now--and he chose the lane. It
was a shorter, and a safer route. It bordered on the rear of the
courtyard which was his objective, and obviated the necessity of
attempting to steal down past the side of "The Yellow Eastern"
unnoticed. No, he did not underestimate the Wolf, but if he had luck
to-night--! He shrugged his shoulders in a sort of grim whimsicality.

His mind reverted to the Spider now--Spider Webb. Facetious, in a way,
the name was! Webb--Spider Webb! And yet the man had come by it
honestly, or dishonestly, enough! The old antique shop for years covered
dealings that were shabbier than the shabbiest of its antiques! It was
probable that more stolen had found Spider Webb's a clearing house than
any other Mecca of the crooks in New York. It was probable, too, that it
had known more police raids than any of its competitors--but, unlike
many of its competitors, nothing but what indubitably belonged there had
ever been found. But then again, the Spider was a specialist--he
specialised in small articles, particularly jewelry--no one in the Bad
Lands who knew his way about would ever have dreamed of going to the
Spider with anything else! Nor was the Spider without justification in
thus restricting his operations. The Spider had always managed to hide
his questionable wares, until he was able to dispose of them and they
passed again out of his possession, with an ingenuity that had baffled,
enraged, and mortified the police--and commanded the enthusiastic
confidence and admiration of the underworld! But this was, for the most
part, past history, and of the days gone by, for the Spider now had
grown old--had grown to be an old man--for it had begun of late to be
whispered that he talked more than he had been wont to talk in the days
of his prime, that he was not as _safe_ as he had been, and in
consequence his trade of late had begun to drift away from him.

And herein lay the secret of the old man's murder at the hands of the
Wolf. The Tocsin's note had not failed to lay stress on this. No one
probably, through a career of half a score of years, knew more about the
Wolf and the Wolf's doings than did the Spider. Rightly or wrongly, the
word was out that the old man, in his garrulity, was not safe--and the
Wolf was inviting no chances where the electric chair was concerned,
that was all! The old man would henceforth be perfectly safe, as far as
any _talking_ went! It was brutal, hideous--but it was the Wolf! Also,
the Wolf, tritely expressed, had proposed to kill two birds with one
stone. The old man's trade was not entirely gone. Yesterday, an old-time
lag, who had dealt with the Spider for many years, and who had "pulled"
the Moorcliffe job--the robbery of a summer mansion a few miles up the
Hudson--had "fenced" the proceeds at the antique shop. Ten thousand
dollars' worth of first-water sparklers! Everybody that was anybody in
gangland knew this. The Wolf had seen the psychological and profitable
moment to strike--again that was all! And again it was diabolical--but
again it was the Wolf!

Jimmie Dale's face was set like flint. And this was the man who had
sworn that he would "get" the Gray Seal! A sort of unholy, passionate
joy surged upon him. Well, they would see, he and the Wolf--and perhaps
to-night! It was certain that the Wolf would act _alone_. The man's
devilish cunning showed itself in having inveigled the old man to that
storehouse on the river bank, rather than to have killer the Spider in
the Spider's own home. It might be days perhaps before the Spider's
absence--for the Spider's peculiar life had demanded mysterious absences
before--was even commented upon, and the Wolf had taken pains to see
that the body was not, immediately at least, identified. It was very
simple--from the Wolf's standpoint! The Wolf was counting it none too
easy a task evidently to find the Spider's ingenious and storied hiding
place, and this would give him a night, two nights, or more, in which,
undisturbed, he might prosecute his search. And, as he had committed
alone, so he would continue to work alone, there were those even in
gangland, and in spite of the acknowledged leadership, who would not
look with friendly eyes upon the Wolf for this!

It was black here in the lane, and now, possibly a distance of a hundred
yards up from the street, Jimmie Dale's fingers, feeling along the
left-hand fence, came upon the latch of a small, narrow door--the
courtyard's access to the lane. He passed through, and stood still--
listening--looking sharply about him. He knew the place well. It was the
heart and centre, the core of its own particular and vicious section of
the underworld. Ahead of him, flanking the two-story, tumble-down
building that was the Spider's home, was a narrow alleyway, then a small
and filthy courtyard, and, its rear upon this and fronting the street,
the alleyway again at the side, the "The Yellow Lantern" that he had
been careful to avoid a dance hall of the lowest type. The Spider had
not unshrewdly chosen his location; nor the proprietor of "The Yellow
Lantern" his--their clientele was a common one, and their interests did
not clash!

From the direction of "The Yellow Lantern" came a hilarious uproar,
subdued somewhat by the distance, out of which arose the strident notes
of a tinny piano beating blatantly the measure of a turkey trot. There
was no other sound. There were lights from the rear of the dance hall,
enough, Jimmie Dale knew, to throw a murky illumination over the front
windows of the antique shop; but there were no lights showing from the
Spider's dwelling itself, that loomed black on the side of the alleyway
at his right hand--the old couple that kept the Spider's house were
doubtless long since in bed in their own particular apartments upstairs.

Jimmie Dale moved softly forward now, gained the back entrance of the
Spider's house, and tried the door cautiously. It was locked. From one
of the little pockets in the girdle under his shirt came a black silk
mask, which he slipped over his face; from another of the pockets came a
little steel picklock. He was pressed close against the door now, his
body merged with the black shadows of the wall. A minute passed--and
then the door swung open, and closed without a sound. Another minute
passed, and still another. From upstairs came the sound of stertorous
breathing, nothing else, only quiet, and a silence that was heavy in
itself--and then the round, white ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight winked
through the blackness. As between himself and the Wolf, he was first, at
least, on the ground!

He was in the kitchen of the house. On the opposite side of the room
from him were two doors, one of them, the one to the left, open--and the
flashlight, playing through, disclosed a passageway leading, obviously,
to the shop at the front, and continuing to the stairway. He crossed to
the right-hand door noiselessly, opened it, and, with a low ejaculation
of satisfaction, stepped in over the threshold. It was the room he
sought--the Spider's bedroom, or, better perhaps, the Spider's den that
served the man for all purposes. The Spider, it was very plain, was not
fastidious! The room was dingy beyond description; the furnishings poor
and poverty-stricken in appearance. It was here the Spider met his
clients of a sort--and drove his bargains. There was no hint of
affluence--the room was miserly.

The flashlight swept in a circle around the room. There was a bed in one
corner, a table and two chairs in another, and a miserable washstand in
still another. The centre of the room, save for an old carpet on the
floor, was quite bare of furnishings. Jimmie Dale's survey of the
appointments, however, was most cursory--they concerned him little. The
flashlight's ray was even lifted above them, as it moved about. There
was only one door--the door by which he had entered; and only one
window--which, with a sudden frown, he mentally noted did not open on
the alleyway, for the very sufficient reason that the alleyway was on
the other side of the house. He stepped quickly to the window, and
looked out. It was a moment before he could see; and then, with a quick
nod of his head, he began, with extreme caution to loosen the window
catches on the sill. There was a narrow space between the house and what
was the blank brick wall of the building next to it, and this space
extended to the rear, and therefore, indirectly, by circling the house
at the back, led to the house and the door in the fence again.

Jimmie Dale smiled grimly, as he swung the old-fashioned windows back on
either side. So far he was in luck to-night, and, with luck, in a very
few minutes now be out and away from the house by the same way he had
entered it--but luck sometimes was a fickle thing, and a goddess most
to be trusted by those who looked after themselves!

He walked back to the doorway, and levelled his flashlight across the
room directly in front of him. The ray fell upon the wooden panelling,
and, holding the light steadily on the same spot, he moved forward
across the floor to the opposite wall, dropped on his hands and knees,
and began to examine the woodwork critically. It was beautiful work,
this panelling that went all around the room, very old, but very
beautiful work, and of very beautifully matched wood--it was entirely
out of place with the rest of the room, or would have been, were it not
that the panelling itself bore witness to the fact that it had been
built in there when the house itself had been built, and bore witness,
too, to the fact that in those days, long gone by, a relic perhaps even
of Dutch handiwork, the house had not been unpretentious amongst its
fellows of that generation.

"Behind panelling in bedroom directly opposite the door," she had
written. Inch by inch, over an area a yard square, those sensitive
finger tips of Jimmie Dale felt their way, lingering here over a knot
in the wood, and there over a joint or crevice. Five minutes went
by--and the five became ten. An exclamation of annoyance, low, guarded,
escaped him. There was nothing--he could find nothing. The Spider's
ingenuity had not been over-rated! Somewhere there must be the secret
spring which operated the panel, but there was no sign of it; neither
was there the slightest sign or indication that any portion of the
panelling was even movable.

He drew back for an instant, frowning. Perhaps--and then he shook his
head--no, the Tocsin did not make mistakes of that kind. The safe was
unquestionably behind the panelling in front of him. Well, there was a
way--it was distasteful to him because it was crude and bungling, but
he could afford no more time in a search, that he had already convinced
himself was hopeless.

From the girdle came a half dozen little blue-steel tools. A jimmy found
and nosed its way into the joint between two panels. There was a low,
faint creak of rending wood. A wedge followed the jimmy. A faint creak
again--and now one a little louder--and Jimmie Dale, half turned,
listened intently--the narrow board was in his hand. There was
nothing--no sound--save that interrupted, stertorous breathing from
above, and the tinny jangle of the piano from the direction of "The
Yellow Lantern."

And now Jimmie Dale smiled again--that curious flicker on his lips that
mingled whimsicality and a deadly earnestness. The Tocsin had made no
mistake. Showing through the aperture, gleaming under the flashlight's
ray, was the nickel dial of a safe. He worked rapidly now. The first
panel out, the remainder came much more readily--and finally the entire
face of the safe was disclosed. Jimmie Dale stared at it--and pursed his
lips. It was an ugly safe, extremely ugly--from a cracksman's point of
view! Also, there seemed a hint of irony, a jeer almost, in the
impassive wall of steel that confronted him. It was one of his own
make--one that had helped, in the old days, to amass the millions that
his father had left to him--and it was one of the _best_!

In an abstracted, deliberate way, his eyes pondering the safe, the
blue-steel tools were replaced in the pockets of the leather girdle; and
then the long, slim, tapering fingers closed upon the dial's knob and
twirled it tentatively, and his head bent forward until his ear was
pressed hard against the face of the safe.

It was very still now--only the breathing from above that seemed in
cadence with those strange and paradoxical palpitations that are known
only in a great silence--the piano for the moment had ceased its jangle.
Jimmie Dale's fingers, from the dial, sought the floor, and frictioned
briskly over the rough, threadbare carpet, until the nerves tingled
under the delicate skin--and then they shot to the dial again.

Strained, every faculty keyed up to its highest tension, he crouched
there against the safe. Again and again his fingers rubbed over the
rough carpet, and again the sweat beads oozed out upon his forehead with
the strain--and then there came through the stillness a long-drawn
intake of his breath. The handle swung the bolt with a low metallic
thud--the safe was open.

There was the inner door now. Again those slim fingers, almost raw,
quivering now at the tips, rubbed along the carpet, and the lips, just
showing beneath the edge of the mask, grew tight with pain. Then he
leaned forward, crouched once more, his head and shoulders inside the
outer door, like some strange animal burrowing for its prey. Faint,
musical, like some far distant tinkle, came the twirling of the
dial--and then, suddenly, he drew back sharply, his hand shot to his
pocket, whipped out his automatic, and, motionless there on his knees,
every muscle rigid, he listened. There was the piano again, the
breathing, the weird pound and thump of the silence--nothing else. He
shook his head in half angry, half tolerant self-remonstrance. He was
under strain, that was all--he had thought he had heard a footstep out
there in the alleyway. He laid his automatic on the floor within instant
reach, and turned again to the safe--acute and sensitive as his hearing
was, it would haw taken good ears indeed to have distinguished a step at
that distance on the other side of the house!

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