JIMMIE DALE

AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Frankl.Packard


P25182.43

HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY








JIMMIE DALE AND THE
PHANTOM CLUE
FRANK L. PACKARD


JIMMIE DALE AND
THE PHANTOM CLUE
BY
FRANK L. PACKARD
AUTHOR OF “DOORS OF THE NIGHT," "PAWNED,"
"FROM NOW on," "THE FURTHER ADVEN-
TURES OF JIMMIE DALE," ETC.
NEW CDH yo
YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


P2.5782.43
HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY
COPYRIGHT, 1922,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY.
JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE. I
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
I The TocSIN . . . . . . . . .
II The Gray Seal . .......
III One Isaac SHIFTEL. ......
IV THREADS . . . . . . . . .
V MOTHER MARGOT
VI THE MAN WITH THE RUBBER-TIPPED
CANE · · · · · · · · · ·
VII THE MESSAGE . . . . . . .
VIII JIMMIE Dale Pays A Visit . ....
IX THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN STAIRS.
X BEGGAR PETE . . . . . . . . . 102
XI The PanellED Wall ...... 114
XII LITTLE SWEENEY . . . . .
XIII THE LESSER BREED . . . . . . . 140
XIV THE CAT's-Paw . . . . . . . . 148
XV BEHIND THE DOORS OF THE UNDERWORLD. 157
XVI ENGLISH STEVE . . . . . . . . 168
XVII A DEVIL'S ALIBI. . . . . . . . 176
XVIII The Voice ......... 189
XIX JACKALS . . . . . . . . . . 197
XX At A QUARTER TO THREE . . . . . 208


CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
XX THE CALL OF THE NIGHT . . . . . 217
XXII A TAPPED WIRE . . . . . . . . 228
XXIII The PIECES OF A Puzzle . . i 235
XXIV The Black Box . . . . . . . 246
XXV IN THE SANCTUARY. . . . .
XXVI AT "THE WHITE RAT" . . . . . .
XXVII THE LAIR . . . . . . . . . .
XXVIII BLIND PETER's . . . . . . . ..
XXIX The Port of Dawn . . . . . .
256
270
278


JIMMIE DALE AND THE
PHANTOM CLUE





1
JIMMIE DALE AND THE
· PHANTOM CLUE
-
I-
THE TOCSIN
THE boat drifted on. In the distance a ferry churned
its way across the river. From the farther shore the
myriad lights of Brooklyn flung a soft glow into the
sky, like a canopy between the city and the night.
And in the boat two figures merged as one in the darkness.
"Marie !" Jimmie Dale whispered. His arms tightened
about her. "Marie!"
She made answer by a little pressure of her hand.
He looked behind him—in toward the nearer shore. Some-
where back there, somewhere amongst those irregular out-
lines that thrust out points of deeper darkness into the
black, mirror-like surface of the water, was the old pier from
beneath which they had escaped, and, above the pier, the
shed where but a little while ago—or was it hours, or a life-
time ago ?–Clarke, alias Wizard Marre, alias Hunchback
Joe, had played his last card, and lost.
A grim smile touched Jimmie Dale's lips. Inside that
shed the secret service men had found their quarry_dead.
They were there now. In their hands lay the evidence that
solved the murder of Jathan Lane; and in their hands, too,
was the murderer himself-only Wizard Marre had taken
the easier way, and was dead.
Jimmie Dale's smile softened. Inside that shed at the
present moment there was commotion enough and light


10 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
enoug The Tocs Yes, that » The roas
enough; but he could hear nothing, and he could see no
light. The Tocsin here and himself were too far away.
Too far away! Yes, that was it—at last! Too far away
from the old life-forever. The road of fear lay behind
them, and she was free, free to come out into the sunlight
again. She had said so herself in that letter he had read
at the club only a few hours ago. Free! Life lay before
them now—and love. With the death of Wizard Marre
there could now be an end of his, Jimmie Dale's, own rôles
of the Gray Seal, and Larry the Bat, and Smarlinghue, and
-no, not hers as the Tocsin, that could never change or
terminate, for she would always be the Tocsin to him.
The Tocsin! Memory came surging upon him. That
night in the long ago, before he had ever seen her, when
he had known her only as the woman who addressed him
as “Dear Philanthropic Crook” in those mysterious notes
of hers that, supplying the data on which he had acted,
the data for those "crimes," where no crime save that
of rendering abortive the crimes of others had ever been,
had made the name of the Gray Seal anathema to police
and underworld alike; that night when, besides a note, he
had also found a gold seal ring of hers, a dainty thing that
bore a crest, a bell surmounted by a bishop's mitre, and
underneath, in the scroll, a motto in French: Sonnez le
Tocsin! It had seemed so apt! Ring the Tocsin! Sound
the alarm! Always her notes had done that-calling the
Gray Seal to arms that some one else might be the better
or the happier for what she bade him do. The Tocsin!
The word had seemed to visualise her then, and, knowing her
by no other name, he had called her—the Tocsin.
She stirred a little in his arms.
"What time is it, Jimmie ?" she asked.
He shook his head. Time! What did time matter now?
To Marie LaSalle, who once had lived in hourly peril of her
life as Silver Mag in the days of the old Crime Club, and
later, yes even until to-night, had again been forced to live
under cover of some rôle which she had never divulged to
him and which he had never penetrated; and to him, Jimmie
derworld alikes seal ring of
a bishop's. ngonnez le


THE TOCSIN
11
Dale, in whose ears need never sound again that slogan of
the underworld, “Death to the Gray Seal!" that reached to
every nook and corner of the Bad Lands—to her and to
him what did time count for now, save as a great, illimitable
mine of happiness, a wealth beyond all telling that they
were to spend together!
She spoke again:
“What time is it, Jimmie?”
And now he answered her.
"I don't know," he said happily. “It was just midnight
when the shed back there was raided. Since then there
hasn't been any such thing as time, Marie.”
“Listen!” she said.
From somewhere across the water, faintly, a tower clock
struck the hour.
“One o'clock !” she exclaimed, as though in dismay. “We
must be getting ashore. I-I did not think it was so late.
And please, Jimmie, I'd like to row the boat. I-I feel
quite-quite cold.”
He felt her shiver a little in his arms.
"Cold !” he echoed anxiously; and then, as he released
her: “All right, if you really want to. It isn't very far.
And I guess it's safe now. Pull in and skirt along the
shore until we can find some good place to land.”
She nodded as she picked up the oars, then turned the
boat's head in toward the shore and began to row.
Jimmie Dale moved back into the stern of the boat and
settled himself in his seat. He watched her, drinking in
the lithe, graceful swing of her body, the rhythmic stroke
of the heavy oars. He could not see her face for the night
shadows hid it, but he could see the poise of her head and
the contour of the full, perfect throat. And he clasped his
hand behind his head, and a great happiness and a great
peace fell upon him.
It seemed somehow as though the voyage of this little
boat in which they had fled out here into the night for
safety epitomised a voyage of great immensity that had
begun in the very long ago, a voyage of interminable night


12 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
through which his eyes had been straining and his soul had
been yearning for a glimpse of the beacon light that should
signal the approach to a wondrous Port of Dawn. And
now the voyage was almost at an end. Marie there at the
oars, and the peace and quiet around them, was the beacon
light at last; and they could no more lose their way because
the way was charted now to that Port of Dawn where there
was no more any strife and peril and sordid crime, and
where only love was.
He smiled at his fancy, and suddenly laughed out into
the night.
"Keep in a little to the right, Marie," he called. “There's
something that looks like a low wharf ahead that ought
to do.”
"Yes; I see it,” she answered.
Jimmie Dale sat abruptly upright in his seat. Perhaps it
was only the rasp and creak of the oars in the rowlocks,
but it had sounded so human—like a short, quick, suppressed
sob. He leaned forward.
"Was that you, Marie?” he asked quickly. “What is it?"
He could not see her face. Her voice came back to him
steady and untroubled :
"Nothing, Jimmie.”
Across the night, far up above them and in the distance,
a great bridge stretched from shore to shore, its arc of
sparkling lights like a tiara crowning the brow of the
heavens. Faintly there came the roar of traffic, ever rest-
less, ever sleepless. A trolley clanged its way unseen some-
where near the shore which the boat was now rapidly
approaching; and here, where the lights showed but sparsely,
many buildings, small and large, loomed out in queer, gro-
tesque and fanciful shapes.
Jimmie Dale's dark eyes lighted. All this was as it always
was and always had been-only it was changed. It held a
promise now that it had never held before. He felt his
pulse beat quicken.
The Port of Dawn!
“Here we are, Marie!” he cried.


THE TOCSIN
13
The bow of the boat touched the edge of a low wharf-
and then Jimmie Dale, like a man stunned, bewildered, his
mind and brain in turmoil and riot, was standing up in the
stern of the boat. Quick, like a flash, the Tocsin had lifted
the oars from the rowlocks, flung them away in the water,
and, springing to the string-piece of the wharf, had pushed
the boringing to the stoiks, dung themhe Tocsin had liftere
"Jimmie! Oh, Jimmie!” Her voice reached him in a
low, broken sob. “There was no other way. It's in your
pocket, Jimmie. I put it there when—when you were
were holding me.”
"Marie!” he cried out wildly. "In God's name, what are
you doing, Marie!” He flung himself upon his knees and
began to paddle furiously with his hands. “Marie!” he
cried again.
A shadow flitted swiftly along the wharf shorewards; it
grew filmy and mingled with a thousand other shadows-
and was lost.
She was gone! The Tocsin was gone—as she had gone
so many times before. He paddled on with his hands, but
the act was purely mechanical. Gone! A cold chill was at
his heart; an agony of fear seized upon him. Gone—when
life in all its fulness ... Gone! Why? An abyss
seemed to yawn before him.
After a time the boat bumped against the wharf. He
sprang out and ran madly to the shore. He found himself
groping like a blind man amongst buildings, in alleys, along
dimly lighted streets. And then suddenly he stood still with
the consciousness of stark futility upon him. Had he
learned no lesson from the past? It was useless to search
for her. He might have known that from the first! He had
known it, only-only things had seemed so changed to-night.
Fear took its toll of him again. It brought the sweat
beads out upon his forehead. Fear for her. Subconsciously
he realised now that something, somewhere, had, after all,
gone wrong to-night; that she was still in danger, a danger
that she still meant he should not share: No other reason


14 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
save that brave, unselfish love of hers would have prompted
her to this.
"It's in your pocket, Jimmie.” Her words came back to
him.
He searched quickly, and with a sharp little cry of pain
drew out a sealed envelope. Under a street lamp in a
deserted street, he tore it open. Words that he had never
thought to see again danced unsteadily before his eyes.
"Dear Philanthropic Crook-since you must be that again," he
read. "I do not know under what circumstances you will receive
this. I only know that before the night is over I shall be with
you, and we will be together-for a little while. And, Jimmie, I
am writing this instead of telling you what I must say, because I
am afraid of myself and our love, afraid that I would not be
strong enough to hold out against the plea of our hearts that
at all costs we should remain together, and against your arguments,
and perhaps against your physical restraint-for you are masterful,
Jimmie. I cannot bring you any more into the shadows in which
I know now I must live again. I must not, Jimmie; for it might
only too well mean your certain destruction, the certain revela-
tion to both the police and the underworld that the Gray Seal and
Larry the Bat and Smarlinghue are none other than Jimmie Dale,
the Riverside Drive millionaire and clubman. You see, I am
writing without reserve, putting upon paper what has never been
put upon paper before, because I know that in some way I shall
personally place this letter in your possession, and that no other
hands shall touch it and no other eyes shall see it save yours and
mine.
"I am writing this half an hour before midnight, while I am
waiting for midnight to come with its disclosure at the old junk-
shop on the East River that Hunchback Joe is Wizard Marre-and
Clarke. And only a day or so ago, Jimmie, I wrote you another
letter telling you that once Clarke was in the hands of the police
I would be safe for always. And Clarke will be caught to-night,
and you will believe that a new world stretches before us, and that
all our hopes and aspirations are to come true at last, and you will
be happier perhaps in that moment than you have ever been before.
Oh, Jimmie, it is so hard even to write this, for I love you so; but
it is because I do love you with all my heart and soul and life that
I will not, shall not, must not let a breath of suspicion exist that
there is anything between Marie LaSalle and Jimmie Dale. God
keep and guard you! I shall pray always and always for that.


THE TOCSIN
15
And some day, some time perhaps-no, not perhaps, but surely,
surely ...
“Jimmie, I did not mean to write like this. Listen! You know,
through the letter to which I referred above, why during all these
past months I have disappeared. You know that I was the only
one who could identify Clarke as one of the leaders of the old
Crime Club, and that it was a question of my life or his. You
know that he went into hiding, and that there followed attempt
after attempt upon my life. And then I left the city for an
extended trip,' as my bankers informed you. And while you sought
to find me, which, for the same reasons that still exist to-night,
I could not let you do, I fought Clarke under cover with his own
weapons. A few days ago I believed I had won; it seemed only a
question of hours. I had placed Clarke in his true person as
Marre, the shyster lawyer, and in his other alias as Hunchback
Joe. And then suddenly, as though he had never existed, I lost
him.
"You now know why. He and some of his band were at work
under the bank making that opening into the president's private
office that resulted this afternoon in the murder of Jathan Lane.
I was too late to prevent that, but almost immediately afterwards
I picked up Clarke's trail again. I found out that in some way, to
cover their own tracks, to end all investigation, false evidence was
somehow to be planted, and that to bear this out another murder
was to be added to that of the bank president. Jimmie, what could
I do? I could not stand passively aside, even when by so doing
my own victory was assured. I had to go on. It was to save a
man's life. There was a way to get the information necessary to
forestall them, though it involved a risk that I would otherwise
never have taken. In a measure I succeeded; I learned how the
papers and money, and the blackjack with which the murder was
committed, were to be placed in Klanner's, the bank janitor's, trunk
in his boarding house, and that the man was to be lured into
Baldy Jack's dance hall, where, in a riot staged for the occasion,
their victim, apparently an innocent bystander, but with his repu-
tation further blasted by being found in that unsavory resort, was
to be shot. A dead man could refute no false evidence! I managed
to get word to you, and, thank God, in time. But I was caught-
and in my own character of Marie La Salle. I was carried to one
of Clarke's lairs, and left there a prisoner. They meant to finish
me when the rest of the night's work was over.
“But I must hurry on, Jimmie. It is getting late.
"As I shall have been with you for a little while before you
will have read this, you will know of course that I escaped. I have
no time now to tell you how. The details do not matter. What
matters is this: That while, before, Clarke was the only one


16 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
who had any concern in putting me out of the way, and that for his
own personal safety, that enmity is now transferred to an even
more formidable enemy—those, and particularly one, who during
the last year have been associated with Clarke. They will be
actuated by two motives. First, revenge for the trap that will
place Clarke in the hands of the police for the murder of Jathan
Lane, and revenge for my interference in their attempt upon Klan-
ner; and, second, the fear-a much more potent motive-that I
know far more about them and who they are than I really do, the
fear that I am in possession of all the knowledge needed to place
them too behind the bars of the death · house in Sing Sing. I do
not know them, Jimmie-except one man, and that man I am not
sure of at all. He is a bigger, brainier, far more crafty man than
ever Clarke was, and far more powerful. There are times when I
think I know him, and times when I am equally sure that I do not.
I have come to call him the Phantom. If I am right, he has a
score of aliases, a score of domiciles, and possesses the facility of
appearing convincingly in each one of a bewildering number of
different characters. I said that they had caught me in my own
person. I do not need to tell you now, Jimmie, that if I were to
go back to New York and resume my life as Marie LaSalle it
would but be going to certain death.
"Just one thing more. I do not believe that the bank's papers,
valuable as they were, that they took from Jathan Lane in his
office, were the sole motive for his murder; indeed, I am not sure
that they were the real motive. I do not know, of course. But I
overheard snatches of something about a safe at Jathan Lane's
house to-night at two o'clock, something that was to have its ful-
filment later in a rendezvous at half-past three with an old ac-
quaintance of yours, one Gentleman Laroque. I may be quite
wrong; it may be that, even if I am right, my escape and Clarke's
capture would effectually put a stop to anything further they might
have schemed to do; but if there is anything in it, and if they go
on, there will be others at Gentleman Laroque's who are not ex-
pected—the police. I will see to that. And so, perhaps, Jimmie,
even to-night, after all, something may happen that will point the
way to this Phantom and those with him-and to happiness for us.
“And now you must not be too anxious, Jimmie. In a measure
I am safe. They have never penetrated the rôle which I have been
playing, and I do not think they ever will. And you are going to
help me, too, Jimmie, whenever-oh, Jimmie, those old days !
whenever I can ‘sound the Tocsin' without allying you with me in
the eyes of those upon whom Clarke's mantle has fallen.”
Jimmie Dale raised haggard eyes. The signature seemed
somehow blurred. “Marie ... Marie ...!"


-II -
THE GRAY SEAL
VOR a time Jimmie Dale stood motionless under the
light, then he started automatically on along the
street. He tore the letter into small fragments and
the fragments into tiny shreds as he went along. The world
seemed a void. No, not that! It was more as though fate
jeered at him ironically. He was exactly, in respect of the
Tocsin and in respect of the fulfilment of his hopes and
plans, where he had been yesterday and a thousand yester-
days ago.
He walked on. The tiny shreds of paper, a few at a time,
fluttered from his fingers and were lost. Mechanically he
found himself boarding a street car. Thereafter he sat, his
strong jaw clamped and hard, staring out through the
window.
Who was the Phantom?
Twice, at long intervals, he changed cars. Finally, far
uptown, he alighted, and, traversing several blocks, paused
in front of a large corner house in a most select and exclu-
sive neighbourhood. Ostensibly, had any one been observing
his movements, he had paused in order that, under the street
lamp, he might consult his watch. It was a quarter of two.
A smile, half grim, half whimsical, as though he were sud-
denly aroused from some deep reverie to actual physical
reality, flickered across his lips. The house on the corner was
the residence of Jathan Lane, the bank president, who had
been murdered that afternoon.
Jimmie Dale replaced his watch, and nonchalantly turned
the corner; but the dark, steady eyes were alight now, sweep-
ing the side street in every direction. His glance detected


18 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
and held for a bare instant on the black mouth of a lane that
showed at the rear of Jathan Lane's house. Jimmie Dale
edged toward the inner side of the pavement, still walking
nonchalantly. And then, gradually merging more and more
with the shadow of the house itself, he came abreast of the
lane—and the street was empty. A moment more, and lithe,
active, silent as a cat in his movements, he had swung himself
over a fence; still another moment, and lost utterly in the
shadows of the porch, he was crouching at the basement door
of the house.
It was Jimmie Dale, the Gray Seal again, in action now.
From under his vest, from one of the multitudinous little
upright pockets of that leather girdle where nestled an array
of vicious blued-steel implements, a compact burglar's kit,
he selected a pick-lock. From another pocket came a black
silk mask. Jimmie Dale slipped the mask over his face, and
leaned closer to the door. For perhaps five seconds the slim,
sensitive fingers were at work, then the door opened noise-
lessly, and closed again, and was locked behind him.
He stood silent, motionless-listening. There was no
sound. Apart from the staff, there should be no one in the
house. The papers had overlooked few details in their ac-
count of the murder that afternoon. Mrs. Lane was away in
Europe, and they had taken the body of Jathan Lane to the
house of his married daughter. Under the mask there came
again that grim Alicker to Jimmie Dale's lips. There were
only the servants then-since it was not yet two o'clock!
The round, white ray of a flashlight stabbed through the
blackness, vanished, and blackness fell again.
“Stairs ahead and to the right,” Jimmie Dale confided to
himself. “Servants' quarters on top floor probably; only
the cellar and storage here."
The flashlight played steadily, impudently now, pointing
the way upstairs; and, as silent as the ray itself, Jimmie Dale
followed. As he reached the head of the stairs he found a
closed door before him. The light went out. He listened
again; then, in the darkness, he opened the door and stepped
through. Again he listened. Still there was no sound. The


THE GRAY SEAL
19
flashlight winked once inquisitively—then darkness again.
He was standing at the rear of the hall. The basement
stairs came up under what was evidently the main staircase.
And now a shadow fitted with incredible swiftness here
and there; and doors opened, and some were closed again,
and some were left open—and there was no sound. And
presently Jimmie Dale stood again at the rear of the hall.
He could command the open door that led to the basement
stairs; and along the hall, where a slight rift in the blackness
made by the plate glass panels was distinguishable, he could
command the front doors.
He nodded in quiet satisfaction to himself. Jathan Lane's
safe was in a sort of private den or office that opened off the
rear of the library, and portières hung between the two
rooms; each room had a door opening off the hall, and both
doors stood open now. A clock struck somewhere in the
house. His lips tightened. It was two o'clock.
Alert, tense, he listened—listened until the silence itself
throbbed and beat at the ear drums, and palpitated, and made
noises of its own.
There wasn't much chance. He knew that. After what
had happened that night, unless under extraordinary condi-
tions, Jathan Lane's safe should be the most inviolate piece
of property to be found anywhere in New York. And even
if any one came, the corollary of whatever held its premise
in that safe was to be found at Gentleman Laroque's, and
the Tocsin had said that the police would be warned in time.
Yes, he understood. She had obviously made no effort to
render anything abortive here at the source, for the very
reason that she hoped it would but lead to the trap she would
have prepared at Gentleman Laroque's. Her attitude had
been quite logical, quite plausible. So why was he here?
Jimmie Dale's hands clenched at his sides. The answer
was simple enough, and yet, too, in its very self seemed to
hold a world of mockery and, yes, even futility. He was
here to pick up the threads of yesterday and of those thou-
sand yesterdays gone anything—the grasping at any straw
that might bring him into that arena where she was battling


20 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
for her life, and from which, striving to shield him, she
sought to bar him out.
He could not very well pick up those threads at Gentleman
Laroque's, if indeed there were any threads to pick up, for
the simple reason that the police would be there! And so
he was here.
Gentleman Laroque! His brow furrowed. Yes, he re-
membered Gentleman Laroque—and Niccolo Sonnino—and
a certain night that had so nearly cost young Clarie Archman
his life. So Gentleman Laroque was in this new combine!
Gentleman Laroque had played the role of safe-breaker that
other night—but Gentleman Laroque had missed his calling,
whether as a safe-breaker or as the gang leader that he was.
He would have made an infinitely better confidence man,
for he was educated, suave, and, when it suited him, polished
to a degree; he possessed all the requisites, and, in abun-
dance, the prime requisite of all--a cunning that was the
cunning of a fox. Also he, Jimmie Dale, remembered some-
thing else about Gentleman Laroque; he remembered Gen-
tleman Laroque's last words to the Gray Seal on that night
in question, and now here in the darkness, waiting for he
knew not what, with Laroque emerging so unexpectedly from
the past, those words, hoarse in their rage and elemental fury,
seemed to ring again with strange significance in his ears:
“You win to-night, but we'll get you yet! Some day we'll
get you, you cursed snitch, you-
What was that?
The sound came neither from below through the open
door of the basement staircase, nor yet from the front doors
along the hall. The sound persisted. It was like the gnaw-
ing of a rat. And then Jimmie Dale placed its general loca-
tion. It seemed to come from outside the house, and in
direction from the little den or office at his right that con-
tained the safe. He moved stealthily to the doorway, and,
still in the hall, protected by the door jamb, peered into the
darkness of the room. He could see nothing.
But now the sound was still more clearly defined, and he
placed it exactly. Rather than a gnawing, it was a scratching


THE GRAY SEAL
21
at the wall outside and below the window; and as it con-
tinued it seemed at times to grow almost human with im-
patience and irritability as it quickened its tempo.
And then suddenly Jimmie Dale turned his head. Imag-
ination? No, there was another sound-and it, too, now
repeated itself, low, cautious, stealthy. Some one was
creeping down the third story stairs from the top of the
house.
For an instant Jimmie Dale stood without movement, then
a hard, quick smile compressed his lips. That scratching
sound outside the window, which still persisted, had not been
loud enough to awaken anybody. It was rather curious,
rather singular! His ears, acute, trained to the slightest
sound, caught the footfalls coming now along the upper hall,
still low, still cautious and stealthy-and Jimmie Dale slipped
across the threshold, and in an instant had passed into the
library and was crouched behind the portières that hung
between the two rooms.
A minute passed. A tread creaked softly on the main
staircase; then a form bulked in irregular outline in the door-
way of the little den, paused for the fraction of a second,
came into the room, closed the door, and glided swiftly to the
window. The window was cautiously opened. There was
the soft pad of feet as a man crawled through and dropped
to the floor. A hoarse whisper vibrated through the room.
“Damn it, why didn't you keep me there all night?” a voice
demanded angrily. “You didn't go to sleep, did you, or
forget to leave the window of your room open so's you could
hear?”
Another voice answered. The words came in a choked,
broken way, as though with great effort:
“No; I–I didn't go to sleep. Not likely! I heard you
the minute you came, but—but I couldn't help it. I had a
-a bit of a turn. I came as soon as I could. I-I was sick.”
A ray of a flashlight lanced through the blackness. It
played on the tall, gaunt figure of an old, gray-haired man
arrayed in a dressing gown, and on ? face that was drawn
and pallor-like in colour.


22 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
dition, base, and ew Yorke clever
Toppend.
Then darkness again.
Behind the portière, Jimmie Dale's face suddenly hardened.
There were little gray “mutton-chop" side whiskers, that was
the only change. He recognised the man in an instant. It
was the “Minister," alias Patrick Denton, one of the clever-
est "inside” crooks that had ever infested New York. The
man, pronounced an incurable heart case, and even then sup-
posed to be in a dying condition, had been pardoned two
years ago while serving a sentence in Sing Sing. Since then
he had dropped out of sight; and indeed, generally, was sup-
posed to be dead.
There was a callous grunt from the man at the window.
"Well, you look it!” said the man. “And that's no lie!"
He laughed shortly. “And maybe it's a good thing. You
could get away with the faithful-butler-mourning-for-his-
dead-master stuff without batting an eyelid, if you had to."
There was no answer.
Jimmie Dale's hand slipped into his pocket and came out
again with his automatic. So that was it! He began to
understand. The Minister was back at his old inside game
again—this time in the role of Jathan Lane's butler!
The man who had crawled in through the window spoke
again-sharply now:
“Well, let's get busy! We've lost too much time, as it is.
If a light's safe, shoot her on; we can work quicker that
way."
"Yes,” said the Minister. "It's—it's safe enough.” He
stifled a cough. “The rest are all asleep; and on account
of what happened this afternoon, I had every shade in the
house drawn. I- " He broke off with a quick gasp, as
coincident with the faint click of an electric-light switch, a
single, shaded incandescent on the desk in front of the safe
went on. “You !” he exclaimed. "I-I thought it was to
be Hunchback Joe.”
The fold of the portière in Jimmie Dale's hand drew closer
in against the edge of the wall projection until there was left
but the veriest crack. A pucker came and nested in little
wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He was not so sure,


THE GRAY SEAL
23
after all, that he had begun to understand. In view of the
Tocsin's letter, he did not understand at all. The man who
stood there in the room beside the Minister, the man with
the cool, contemptuous black eyes, the thin, cunning lips
parted in a grim smile, was Gentleman Laroque.
"So it was,” said Laroque coolly. "You've got it straight.
Hunchback Joe was to come here for the sparklers, smear
the trail by bringing them back to me, and then I was going
to slip them to old Isaac Shiftel. But Hunchback Joe
couldn't come, and as it's a rather fussy job I didn't dare
trust any one else, so I came myself. I'll take them direct
from here to Shiftel's.”
The pucker cleared from Jimmie Dale's eyes. Shiftel-
old Isaac Shiftel—the fence! The man was an outstanding
figure in the underworld! Yes, he did begin to understand.
But for once, for the first time since those days in the years
gone by when the Tocsin.had begun to sound those "calls to
arms,” the Tocsin was astray. It was not her fault. It was
nothing that she could by any possibility have foreseen.
Only as matters now stood the police trap at Laroque's would
be abortive—it should have been at Isaac Shiftel's! Jimmie
Dale's lips pressed together. Well, he knew where Isaac
Shiftel lived, and instead of the police, it would perhaps
be-
Jimmie Dale's mental soliloquy ended abruptly. The Min-
ister was walking with weak, unsteady steps across the room,
groping at the desk for support, and speaking as he went.
“There isn't anything the matter, is there?” he asked
anxiously. “I mean nothing's gone wrong with that other
thing to keep Hunchback.Joe away? He's safe, isn't he?”
An oath fell softly from Gentleman Laroque's lips. He
still smiled; but the cool contempt had gone from his eyes,
and in its place was a smouldering passion.
"Wrong?” he echoed. “No; nothing's gone wrong, except
that the whole plant is blown, the papers pinched by the
police, and Hunchback Joe is dead.”
"What's that, you say?" The old man swayed on his feet,
his face a ghastly white. "Dead! You said-dead? I- "


24 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Jimmie Dale straightened up involuntarily. The old man
was undeniably ill, desperately ill. He had reeled and would
have fallen had not Laroque caught him and placed him in a
chair.
"Brandy!” the old man gasped. “Over there-on-on
that cabinet."
Laroque procured the stimulant. The Minister gulped it
down eagerly. It seemed to revive him. He stared anxiously
at Laroque.
"How-what-what happened?” he whispered hoarsely.
“The police were tipped off by some one you don't know,
and by some one you do,” said Laroque between his teeth.
“The some one you know was—the Gray Seal.”
"My God!" The white face was set with fear. “The
police-and-Hunchback Joe dead! We-we can't go on
with this-we'd-
“We couldn't if Joe weren't either trapped or dead,"
Laroque broke in sharply. "Pull yourself together! We've
no time to waste. Don't you understand ? It's safer than
ever it was! If Klanner, the bank janitor, had got his, and
the fake evidence had been found the way we planted it, this
little deal here to-night was all tucked away neat enough.
But Klanner's skin was saved, by luck as we thought then,
though we know better now, and that put everything up in
the air as far as this was concerned-until the police copped
Joe with the goods, and Joe snuffed out. That gave them the
motive again for the murder this afternoon, and gave them
the man who did it. The case is closed now tighter than we
figured it could be sewed up even in the first place. Get me?"
The old man shook his head. He looked furtively around
him.
"I'm afraid,” he said huskily. "If the Gray Seal's in this,
it-it ain't safe.”
"But I tell you the Gray Seal isn't in this," snapped La-
roque impatiently. “That's what I'm trying to get through
your thick head! He and every one else will think the cur-
tain rolled down on the last act when they got Hunchback
Joe. It's safe enough! It's so safe there isn't anything to it,


THE GRAY SEAL
25
if your end is safe. And you ought to know about that-
you've been a year getting the dope.”
"I—I ain't afraid of that,” said the old man. “There's no
one in the world knows how many he had. The family knew
he had a lot, of course, and knew it was his hobby, and that
he kept 'em here where he could look at 'em instead of in a
safety deposit vault-though I guess he figured no safety
deposit vault had anything on his—but they just knew he
had a lot, they didn't know how many."
A strange light came dawning suddenly in Jimmie Dale's
eyes. Had the Tocsin been right in this respect? Was this
the real motive for the murder—not the bank's papers ?
Jathan Lane's hobby! It was no secret. Jathan Lane was a
fellow member of that most exclusive organization, the St.
James Club. Dimly there came back to memory a conversa-
tion one afternoon when four or five members, Jathan Lane
and himself amongst them, were gathered around one of the
smoking room tables, and-
"Sure!” said Gentleman Laroque brusquely. "Well, then,
what's the matter with you? There's no sign of any rob-
bery; no sign of any entry into the house, not so much as
an unlocked door or a scratch on a window sill; and Jathan
Lane, the only man who could know that anything had been
taken-is dead. And his death”—Laroque grinned—“oc-
curred in such a way as to make what's done here secure
from even suspicion. The bank game's a blind. This is what
we've been after, and now it's open and shut. And your
share is the biggest haul you ever made in your life.”
The old man stared around him. Colour crept into his
cheeks and glowed in hectic spots. His eyes, deep in their
sockets, began to burn with a feverish light. He pulled him-
self up to his feet.
"Yes, yes!” he mumbled fiercely. "Rich—ha, ha!-rich!
It cannot fail; I am a fool”—he caught his breath, and
swayed again on his feet. “Come on! Come on! Hurry!"
he choked out.
Jimmie Dale watched them, his lips suddenly tight. They
had passed by the safe, and were coming directly toward


26 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
knighter. He His cheefposit vault.»
where he stood. Another yard and they would reach the por-
tières. His automatic swung silently upward in his hand.
And then the old man halted in front of an oil painting that
hung from the wall a little less than shoulder high.
For an instant the man stood there breathing heavily, as
though even the exertion of crossing the room had taxed
him beyond his strength; and then with a quick movement he
jerked at the edge of the frame, and the painting itself, as
though it were the grooved cover of a box, slid to one side,
exposing the wall, which was as bare and as innocent in ap-
pearance behind, or, rather, through the frame, as anywhere
else in the room.
“Jathan Lane's safe deposit vault,” coughed the Minister.
He laughed. His cheeks were burning; his eyes were
brighter. He leaned suddenly down toward the floor. “This
knot in the wainscoting—see?”
Behind the empty frame, a door in the wall swung open-
and the light from the room fell upon the nickel dial of a
safe.
“That's the boy!” applauded Gentleman Laroque.
“Yes, yes!” whispered the old man. “I'll open it! Wait!
A-a long time it took to get the combination, but—but I
got it"-his fingers were working at the dial—"there—there
it is !”
“Just a second !” said Laroque coolly, as the door of the
little wall safe swung open. He glanced around him, then
darted across the room to a small, square table on which
stood a heavy bronze vase. "Here, this will do!” he said,
and laying the vase on the floor, came back with the table.
"Shoot the stuff out on this !"
It took a minute, perhaps two; and then upon the table
there lay a number of jewellers' cases in both plush and
leather, and a dozen or more little chamois bags. Laroque
was rapidly opening and shutting the cases, and as he did so
the contents of each in its turn, pendants, brooches, orna-
ments of many designs, all of them set with diamonds,
seemed to leap thirstily at the light and hail it with eager


THE GRAY SEAL
27
scintillating flashes before the covers could be shut down
upon them again.
“That all that's in there?" demanded Laroque.
“Yes," breathed the old man. “Yes”—he rubbed his
hands rapaciously together—"all except the tray he uses to
paw 'em over on.”
"That's thoughtful of him!” grunted Gentleman Laroque.
"Let's have it."
From the bottom of the safe the Minister pulled out and
laid upon the table an oblong, plush-covered tray with raised
edges.
"Now!” grunted Laroque again. "Open the bags, and
dump the whities into the tray.”
Jimmie Dale drew in his breath. It seemed as though little
rivers of fire had begun to stream from the mouths of the
bags. The men were working fast now; Laroque with al-
most cynical composure; the old man, wrought up, clumsy
in his greed, his hands trembling, mumbling, crooning to
himself.
Diamonds, unset stones, of all sizes, poured into the tray;
they filled it, heaped it to its edges. An inch deep they lay.
It was a fortune whose value Jimmie Dale did not dare
attempt to compute-a pool of immortal beauty, restless with
vitality, flashing, limpid, shifting, iridescent. Here the facet
of a stone struck back at the light, fiery, passionate in its
challenge; there another lay, soft in its radiance, glowing,
pulsing, breathing, alive.
Laroque drew a cloth bag from his pocket and unfolded
it. He ran his finger through the stones, separating them
into two almost equal portions; the portion nearer him he
began to put into his little sack.
"Slip the rest of them into the chamois bags again, and put
'em back in the safe,” he directed tersely. “Divide 'em
amongst the bags as equally as you can.' And those gew-
gaws in the cases, too, of course—put them back. We can't
afford to monkey with anything but the unset stones; any
one of those ornaments might happen to be just the one that
somebody in the family would remember—and miss.”
drew Singles porte sacke cha


28 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
But now the Minister hesitated. The hectic colour had fled
from his cheeks, only to enhance, it seemed, the fever fire in
his eyes; the muscles of his face twitched; his hands, trem-
bling before, shook now as with the ague.
"All!” he whispered fiercely, and touched his lips with the
tip of his tongue. “Look at 'em! My God, look at 'em!
We've got 'em all here! Take 'em! Take 'em! Let's take
'em all—all the unset stones anyhow! I'll make my get-away
with you. Can't we take 'em all?"
Gentleman Laroque continued his work without looking
up.
"I've never been in Sing Sing,” he said, with a thin smile.
“That's why I came here myself to-night. I couldn't trust
you or anybody else, except Hunchback Joe, to stand up
against the temptation of making the bum play that would
land us there. All! That's what Sing Sing is full of! You
poor fool, aren't you satisfied with a sure thing when the
sure thing is a fortune? That's what the half we're taking
is—a fortune. And nobody to know that any job has been
pulled; and Shiftel with a free hand to dispose of the stones
at market value! Would you rather pinch them all, make
it next to impossible to sell them for anything like what
they're worth, and on top of that dodge the police for the
rest of your life? You'd have a rosy chance making your
get-away-Mr. Jathan Lane's vanishing butler, alias the
Minister, alias Patrick Denton, late of Sing Sing!" His
voice hardened suddenly. “As I said, I've never been in
Sing Sing. Hurry up, now! Put the rest of those stones
and all the ornaments back in the safe.”
The old man swept his hand across his eyes.
"Sure," he said thickly; "you're right, and I- " A
spasm of pain contorted his features, and he clutched at his
side and staggered; but as Laroque, with a sharp exclamation,
reached out a steadying hand, the Minister shook his head.
"I'm all right,” he said-and began to return the diamonds
Laroque had left on the tray to the little chamois bags.
A strange smile crossed Jimmie Dale's lips. Laroque was
right-quite right. And from Laroque's standpoint-safe.
it were worth, ite? You'd me's vanish to Sing Sine been in
The old he said thickly
features, and a


THE GRAY SEAL
29
The scene of the two men at work there beyond the portière
seemed suddenly to shift, and he, Jimmie Dale, was again one
of that afternoon group gathered around the table in the
smoking room of the St. James Club. Jathan Lane, one of
the richest men in America, and his hobby! It had been
pure pleasantry, the twitting to which they had subjected the
multimillionaire. But the banker had answered seriously.
“How many stones have I? What are they worth?” he had
said in reply to a question. “I am sure I do not know
myself, but I am equally sure there are no finer unset dia-
monds, in mass you understand, in America. I have been
buying them, one, two, half a dozen at a time, for years. I
love them; I take a pure delight in them; and I indulge my-
self without stint, since, after all, my hobby is by no means
a bad one even in a business sense. At least, and what can
hardly be said of most hobbies, the value is always there."
"But your family?" the questioner had persisted. “I should
think Mrs. Lane and your daughter would be raiding you all
the time !" And then Jathan Lane had laughed. “Famili-
arity and contempt, you know," he had said. “A boy and his
bag of marbles. They haven't looked at them for years.”
Gentleman Laroque was speaking again.
"That's the idea !” he said more pleasantly. “They may
be a little disappointed, perhaps even a little surprised that
there aren't more, but that's where it ends so far as the
family is concerned. No suspicion that everything isn't just
as old man Lane left it; no suspicion that anything has been
taken. And, speaking professionally, therein lies the differ-
ence between an artist and a hog!" He tucked the small
cloth bag under his coat. The table was clear. “Close her
up nice and tidy,” he smiled, "and I'll beat it for Shiftel's."
The old man closed the wall safe, and slid the painting
back in its grooved frame.
"Fine!” approved Gentleman Laroque. “I'll leave you to
put the table back. Come on now, and lock the window
behind me.”
Jimmie Dale did not move; only his face set a little more
grimly as he watched Gentleman Laroque climb through the
Geof marbles. "Pt, you knownLane hadia


30 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
thea
is
the ezici: What some
window and disappear. It would be a pity to let Shiftel get
out of this scot-free! His mind, alert, incisive, was sifting,
weighing, formulating the details of a plan whose germ had
taken root there, it seemed, almost from the moment he had
begun to watch the men at work. Neither Gentleman La-
roque nor the Minister would eventually escape, for they
could be found anytime. ... Shiftel was another member
of the gang, an oily, craven little rat, and Shiftel in a corner
with his own skin in danger was far more likely to talk than
either of the other two ... the Tocsin's letter and the
Phantom ... what Shiftel knew he could be made to tell
... the evidence of this robbery here must be taken care of
as soon as the Minister there had gone upstairs again to
There came a low, dull thud; a broken cry:
“Brandy-I— "
With a sudden sweep of his arm Jimmie Dale brushed
aside the portière and leaped forward—too late. The heavy
bronze vase, fallen from nerveless fingers that had striven
to lift it back on the table, was still rolling across the floor,
as the old man, with arms outflung, pitched forward beside
it, and lay still.
In an instant Jimmie Dale had reached the cabinet and
procured the stimulant, and in another was kneeling beside
the prostrate figure—and then, after a moment, in a strangely
quiet and deliberate way Jimmie Dale laid the brandy aside.
It was very still in the house, still as the form stretched
out there on the rug before him, still as the old, white, up-
turned face. The man was dead.
The grim, sharp lines that drooped the corners of Jimmie
Dale's lips faded away, and something seemed to soften the
hard, set immobility of his face as he rose finally to his feet.
It was just a crook, just the Minister, alias Patrick Denton,
just the end of a vicious, miserable career of crime—but it
was also the end of a human life. And life even to this
warped soul was as sweet, wasn't it, as to another?—more so
perhaps for the very fact that death must have stood with
beckoning finger for so long now at the other's elbow!


THE GRAY SEAL
31
stue pressed agaitinsitive fingers molts and locks, save at times
Jimmie Dale turned slowly away and walked across the room.
Mechanically he slid the painting out along its grooves;
mechanically he stooped and found the knot in the wains-
coting. Perhaps it was as well, perhaps infinitely better
this way, better that the end should come here than behind
the steel bars and the gray stone walls where once it had
so nearly come. They would not have pardoned the Min-
ister twice.
The little door in the wall had swung open, the nickel dial
of the safe glittered in the light-and suddenly Jimmie Dale's
shoulders straightened, and for an instant his dark eyes
studied the closed steel door. Then he leaned forward, his
ear pressed against the face of the safe for the tumblers' fall,
and the slim, sensitive fingers, the nerves throbbing at the
tips, those magical masters of bolts and locks, were at work.
The minutes passed. There was no sound, save at times
the faint, musical whir of the dial; then, abruptly, a deep
breathed exclamation:
“All thumbs to-night!”
Again the minutes passed; again the dial moved, now with
its musical whir, now slowly, with infinite care; and then a
sound, so low as to be scarcely audible—the soft thud, muf-
fled within the steel walls, of metal meeting metal, the bolts
sliding in their sockets.
The door of the safe stood open.
Jimmie Dale swung around and stared about the room.
He was provided with no little cloth sack such as Gentleman
Laroque had had; true he had, instead, those little chamois
bags, and his pockets might hold them all, but With a
quick stride he crossed the room to the desk, and picked up a
black leather portfolio. It was quite large enough, and,
used for carrying documents, its flap was fitted with a clasp.
He opened it, dumped the papers it contained out on the desk,
and returned to the wall safe.
Jimmie Dale was working with lightning speed now. The
little chamois bags were tucked into the bottom of the port-
folio; the small plush and leather jewellers' cases were opened


32 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
in quick succession, their contents following the chamois bags,
the cases themselves being tossed helter-skelter upon the
floor.
The safe was empty.
Jimmie Dale closed the portfolio, and cast a sharp, critical
glance around the room. He nodded grimly to himself.
There was ample evidence now that there had been a rob-
bery, quite ample everybody knew that there had been
something in the now empty safe—and it would not there-
fore be, as Gentleman Laroque expected, so blind a trail now
that led to the source of the diamonds with which Isaac
Shiftel was to be endowed! Also, for good measure in this
respect, some of the ornaments, that were certainly the
property of Mrs. Lane, and which Gentleman Laroque had
been wise enough to leave alone, would not lack for a speedy
identification! And, again, there was the yawning door of
the wall safe, and the painting that still protruded so elo-
quently from its frame!
His eyes softened in their expression as they held now for
an instant again on the form that lay upon the floor. Then
he shook his head in quick decision. He needed time now
before an alarm was sounded that might by any chance reach
the ears of Gentleman Laroque, or, more particularly, one
Isaac Shiftel!
Jimmie Dale consulted his watch. It was five minutes of
three. The electric-light switch clicked under his fingers.
The room was in darkness.
Then silence through the house.
And presently a figure crouched again in the shadows of
the basement porch, and crossed the yard, and swung itself
silently over the fence into the lane—and from here, slipping
the black silk mask from his face, Jimmie Dale emerged on
the street.
But now Jimmie Dale seemed to be no longer in haste.
It was a long way from Jathan Lane's mansion to Mr.
Isaac Shiftel's unsavory abode, which was now Jimmie


III -
ONE ISAAC SHIFTEL
hot matter. "En let the man que—but not
T HE taxi rolled and swayed its way along. Jimmie
Dale sat staring at the portfolio that bumped with the
1 motion of the car upon his knees. In some thirty-odd
minutes, at halfpast three to be exact, the police would be
paying a visit to Laroque's quarters, and even if the man
were not back there by then, the police were patient and
would wait! They would get Laroque—but not the evi-
dence. They might even let the man go again-temporarily.
It would not matter. Laroque's freedom, if obtained at all,
would be of very short duration. The evidence lacking at
Gentleman Laroque's would be found within the hour and in
abundant measure, together with Mr. Isaac Shiftel himself,
at-Isaac Shiftel's!
But that was not all; nor, indeed, that which most vitally
interested him. Despite the Tocsin's efforts to keep him out
of those shadows, as she had termed it, that seemed to have
closed down upon her blacker and more ominous even than
before, the night's work had already brought him greater
returns than he had ever dared to hope for or expect. He
knew three of the pawns who moved at the criminal will of
the unknown leader whom she had styled the Phantom. One
of the three was dead, but there remained two; and of the
two, one was Laroque, and the other was a miserable little
rat-like creature, who, under persuasion, was not likely to
prove over-secretive. And Shiftel's tongue, once made to
wag, held promise of almost anything, even the “Open Ses-
ame” to what was now his, Jimmie Dale's, ultimate goal-
the Phantom.
34


ONE ISAAC SHIFTEL
35
Jimmie Dale's eyes travelled to the window, held there for
a few minutes noting the taxi's progress, and then fixed in-
trospectively again on the portfolio.
Shiftel! He knew Shiftel as only the initiated knew him,
as only those knew him whose ears were attune to the whis-
pered confidences of the underworld's exchanges in the dens
and dives hidden away from the light of day, where he, Jim-
mie Dale, once as Larry the Bat, and now in the present day
as Smarlinghue, the broken-down artist and hop-fighter, was
welcomed as one of the élite of that inglorious realm. He
had even seen Shiftel on one or two occasions—an unkempt,
bearded, spectacled foreigner of uncertain age, a cringing
little beast, hideously cunning, a master in his own peculiar
line of deviltry. Shiftel ostensibly, for the benefit of the
police should they ever prove inquisitive, made his living in
his two-room, dirty, bachelor apartment, by working on gar-
ments which he brought from various sweat shops. If he
were rarely at home and too lazy to work much, that was
his misfortune, his loss, and his sole personal affair! But
the underworld held him in quite other regard—as a “fence,"
a “shover of stolen goods," who was safe, and in cleverness
without an equal. There were few crooks in the Bad Lands
but were hungry for Isaac Shiftel's services, but Shiftel was
not approachable to all; it was understood, and perforce had
regret fully come to be accepted as a fact, that he dealt only
with a small and select clientèle of his own choosing, whose
personnel was more guessed at than known; and that to
break into the charmed circle was a feat attempted by many
but accomplished by few. And as far back as Jimmie Dale
could remember, as far back as he could remember even
Gentleman Laroque, Shiftel had lived in the same miserable
rooms in the same miserable tenement.
The taxi rattled on. At intervals Jimmie Dale kept glanc-
ing out of the window. And then, as the taxi turned at last
into the Bowery, he smiled suddenly, laid his handkerchief
on the portfolio, and reached into one of the pockets of the
leather girdle under his vest. Shiftel! He took out a thin
metal case, like a cigarette case, and from the case, with a


36 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
pair of tiny tweezers that mocked at finger-prints, he lifted
out a diamond-shaped gray paper seal that was adhesive on
one side, and dropped it on the handkerchief. He returned
the metal case to its hiding place, folded the handkerchief
carefully, and replaced it in his pocket.
A moment later the taxi stopped. Jimmie Dale alighted,
paid and dismissed the chauffeur, and as he swung around
the corner, walking east from the Bowery, he looked at his
watch. It was twenty minutes past three. It became now
simply a question whether Laroque was still with Shiftel,
or had gone home.
The street, one of the most shabby of East Side streets,
was dark, poorly lighted, and free of pedestrians. Jimmie
Dale passed by a tenement whose shabbiness was quite in
keeping with its surroundings, passed by a narrow areaway
which separated the tenement from another which might
have been a duplicate of the first-and halted before the
entrance of the second tenement.
The outer door was unlocked. In a moment he was inside
the hallway, and in utter blackness now stood motionless,
listening. Then again the black silk mask was slipped over
his face, and again it was as though a shadow moved. Shif-
tel's apartment was the middle one on the ground floor facing
the other tenement across the areaway.
Jimmie Dale passed down the length of the hall, counting
the doors on his right by the sense of touch, and, returning,
crouched with his ear against the panel of the door he had
selected. From within, so faintly as to be indefinable in any
concrete way, there came the sound of movement. Still
Jimmie Dale listened, even while his fingers worked silently
at doorknob and lock. He nodded his head as he completed
his work. There had been no sound of voices. Gentleman
Laroque had evidently been and gone. Isaac Shiftel was
alone.
And then suddenly Jimmie Dale was on his feet, and in
a flash was in the room, the door closed and locked behind
him. Through the doorway of a connecting room ahead of
him he could see the unkempt, bearded figure of Shiftel as


ONE ISAAC SHIFTEL
37
the man, with a cry, sprang wildly to his feet from the chair
in which he had been seated, clawing, even as he sprang, at
the white, glittering array of diamonds strewn upon the table-
top before him.
"Who's that? Who's there?" the man called out hoarsely.
Jimmie Dale's automatic covered the other as he moved
swiftly forward to Shiftel's side.
"Quite an elaborate collection you've got here, Isaac," he
said softly. “First water stones of course, or you wouldn't
be handling them. And please don't wriggle, Isaac, until I-
ah, thanks !" He had laid the portfolio down on the table,
and his fingers passing deftly over Shiftel's clothing had
whipped out a revolver from the other's pocket and trans-
ferred it to his own.
But now Shiftel seemed to have got a sudden grip upon
himself. He leaned forward, peering sharply from behind
his spectacles at Jimmie Dale's masked face.
"No," he said with a snarl, “I don't know you, because
I don't know your kind. But you evidently don't know
Isaac Shiftel. Those stones, eh? That's it, is it? Well, you
may get out of here with them, but afterwards-eh?-do you
think Isaac Shiftel's arm is so short as that?”.
Jimmie Dale made no answer. He retreated a step, and
with his free hand began to unfasten the portfolio.
Shiftel shook his fist virulently now. The first shock once
over, he was, through familiarity, apparently quite at his
ease again in dealing with—a crook.
"How'd you get wise to this, eh?” he demanded fiercely.
“How'd you— " His glance had travelled to the window
that opened on the areaway. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “That's
it, eh? The shade's down, but like a fool I left the window
open. You had the luck to sneak into that areaway." He
peered again into Jimmie Dale's face, and abruptly his tone
and manner changed. He rubbed his hands together ingrati-
atingly. “I said you didn't know Isaac Shiftel,” he said
smoothly; "but you do-everybody in your line of business
knows Isaac Shiftel. I'll make a deal with you—a fair share


38 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
-eh? You don't want Isaac Shiftel as an enemy. I'll give
you- "
"You're getting in ahead of me, Isaac," interrupted Jimmie
Dale plaintively. He coughed slightly—and politely pressed
his handkerchief to his moistened lips. "I meant to be the
first to offer something.” With a quick jerk of his revolver
hand, he plucked a diamond necklace from the top of the
portfolio, and tossed it upon the table. “That, for instance
-Isaac.”
The ornament seemed to fascinate Shiftel. As if drawn to
it against his will, he leaned forward staring at it; and then,
as though actuated by a sort of frightened incredulity, he
reached out a hand toward it—but Jimmie Dale's hand that
still held the handkerchief was the quicker. It fell and
gripped like a vise upon the back of Shiftel's hand.
“Just a moment, Isaac,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “There
is something else that I want you to have—as a little me-
mento of the occasion."
There came a startled cry from Shiftel. Jimmie Dale had
withdrawn his hand, and Shiftel was staring now, not at
the diamond necklace, but at a diamond-shaped gray paper
seal that was pasted on the back of his hand.
"I'll say it for you !” Jimmie Dale's smile was not in-
viting. "The Gray Seal! I apologise for the melodrama, but
I think it will aid you, Isaac, to see things in a clearer light.
You've got a little information that I want, and I imagine
it will help to quicken your memory and loosen your tongue
to know who wants it.”
There was no answer. The man, his lips twitching, was
still staring at the back of his hand.
With a sudden movement, Jimmie Dale emptied the con-
tents of the portfolio upon the table. He brushed them into
a heap with the diamonds already there.
“They belong together,” said Jimmie Dale, in a curious
monotone, “and I couldn't bear to see them left behind.
They'll be found together too, Isaac, for I am afraid it will
be impossible to make any one believe now that Jathan
Lane's safe has never been disturbed." His voice hardened
tentaith a suddene back of his hman, his lips twitor


40 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
window, was whispering the words. "The police-at La-
roque's!" And then he raised both fists in fury and shook
them above his head. “You snitch, you cursed snitch"—the
low, whispered words seemed but to accentuate the man's
sudden flood of passion-"we'll get you yet for this !"
For an instant Jimmie Dale's brain seemed to reel in tur-
moil and chaos. That voice was no longer Shiftel's. Those
words! Once he had heard those exact words before, and
—with a quick step forward, his hand reached out,
tearing beard and spectacles from the other's face.
“Gentleman Laroque !"
“Yes, you fool!" said Laroque, still whispering. "So
you've tripped at last, eh? You didn't know, and you've
brought the police here. Well, take the consequences! It's
you who's trapped!" He was backing slowly away from
both table and window toward the inner wall of the room.
"Perhaps you'll explain the possession of those stones! You
fool, you and that woman with you, you don't know what
you're up against, but- "
"Don't move !" ordered Jimmie Dale grimly.
"Just this far," smiled Laroque. “I hear them coming
along the hall inside now. Don't forget there's one of your
police on guard outside the window, and— ”.
The room was in instant darkness. The bare fraction of
a second passed, not more; there was a faint scraping sound
from the direction where Laroque had been standing—and
Jimmie Dale's flashlight, whipped from his pocket, was
sweeping around him.
The room was empty!
Jimmie Dale's face was set like chiselled marble. Empty!
Gone! The man was gone! But that was not all! Voices
were ringing that slogan of the old days in his ears again:
“Death to the Gray Seal!" He did not need to be told what
it meant to be caught by either police or underworld. He,
too, heard those guarded footsteps inside the tenement and
coming now along the hall. His mind, alert, virile, was work-
ing with lightning speed. The doorway was behind him, and
Laroque could not have gone that wayếnor by the window


ONE ISAAC SHIFTEL
41
guarded by the police. There must be some secret exit from
the room. If so, given but a second, while he, Jimmie Dale,
was attempting an escape, Laroque could get back again
and secure the diamonds that lay upon the table. And he,
Jimmie Dale, was responsible for them now!
And now Jimmie Dale in action was swift as his racing
thoughts. Whether he could save himself or not, there was
at least a way to save the stones. With the flashlight
switched on, he propped it on the end of the table, its ray
streaming over the gems and playing in the opposite direc-
tion from the connecting door.
“If you can hear me, Laroque,” he whispered, “I warn
you-don't try it! All you'll get off that table will be a bul-
let, whether I'm caught or not !”.
It was utter blackness behind him. He backed swiftly,
silently through the connecting door, and across the outer
room to the door that led into the hall. His automatic held
a line on the table top. He crouched at the far side of the
door casing. They were here now. He heard a whispered
consultation outside, as his fingers, closing on the key, si-
lently unlocked the door. Queer! His brain was racing
again. A queer sight! All blackness back here—and,
through the connecting doorway, a light, apparently coming
from nowhere, streamed over a shimmering, scintillating mass
of diamonds, and ended by imposing itself in a white, lumin-
ous circle on a dirty, greasy wall behind! His eyes never
left the table; his automatic never wavered in its line. Queer!
The Phantom! Gentleman Laroque- Isaac Shiftel! Could
it be? Was that a partial answer to the Tocsin's “score of
aliases and score of domiciles”? Was Gentleman Laroque
the Phantom? Yet how had she taken this for Laroque's
home if she hadn't known the two men were one? And she
hadn't known. She had said so. But-yes, it was not un-
explainable. It might easily have been-just as it had been
with him, Jimmie Dale, as Larry the Bat, or as Smarlinghue.
She might have seen Laroque come here some evening-
and Shiftel might have come out—while she thought Laroque


42 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
remained at home. It might easily be that she did not know
Shiftel, and so
“Bust it in !" The words came sharp, incisive, from the
hall; then a quick exclamation: "Blamed if the door ain't
unlocked! Come on!"
The door was flung violently open. A man swung for-
ward into the room—and halted abruptly, staring toward
the connecting doorway.
“For Heaven's sake, sergeant, look at that !” he burst out.
A man behind pushed eagerly forward. And Jimmie
Dale, crouching low by the baseboard in the blackness, slipped
through the doorway behind the other without a sound, and
in a moment was outside the tenement and walking quietly
along the street-in a direction that ignored the areaway.
Half an hour later Jimmie Dale mounted the steps of a
palatial residence on Riverside Drive. He smiled softly as
he stumbled and shuffled so noisily that before he had gained
the topmost step the door was opened for him by the white-
haired old butler, who had been butler to Jimmie Dale's
father before him, and whose proudest boast was that he had
dandled his Master Jim upon his knee. It would have been
so easy to have slipped in, and passed the old man, and gone
upstairs to bed-and broken the old man's heart to have
been found out asleep at his self-appointed post.
"What!” said Jimmie Dale severely—and used identically
the same words he had used on a hundred similar occa-
sions: “Sitting up again for me, Jason? How many times
am I to tell you that I won't have it? Jason, go to bed at
once !"
“Yes, sir,” said Jason. “Thank you, sir.
Master Jim, sir-I will.”
Thank you,


IV-
THREADS
NWO weeks had passed.
It was evening; and Jimmie Dale, as Smarlinghue
1 now, the seedy, down-at-the-heels artist, better known
as Smarly in the Bad Lands, and still better known again
in the ultra-exclusive dens and dives, where the first citizens
of New York's crimeland foregathered, as a dope fiend shat-
tered beyond repair, a character shady enough from any
angle to entitle him to homage even in that unhallowed circle
of the élite, slouched along an East Side street-but the
slouching gait was strangely and incredibly swift. He
skulked in the night shadows of the buildings like some
evil thing that sought darkness as kindred to itself. But at
intervals, as he moved along with that strange illusive swift-
ness, the rays of a street lamp, as though in ironic mockery
at his inability to evade them, brought out into sharp relief
the disreputable figure whose coat was a size too small for
him, and from the short sleeves of which protruded blatantly
the frayed and soiled wristbands of his shirt, whose shoulders
were stooped, and whose face, what could be seen of it under
a battered felt hat, was hollow cheeked, and gaunt with a
half starved look.
And now he entered a house that made the corner of a
lane, a house that was as disreputable as himself, a dwelling
of some old-time pretentions, but with the city's onward
march a derelict now, metamorphosed into a mean and
squalid tenement. He passed along the dark, musty hallway
to the rear room on the ground floor, and, opening the door,
stepped inside. He closed the door, locked it behind him,
and for an instant stood still, his glance seeming to search
43


44 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
into the very shadows themselves where they lay heaviest
in the far corners of the room.
It was the Sanctuary that for a year now-or was it two ?
-had housed the character of Smarlinghue, as, in the days
gone by, the old Sanctuary, before the fire had destroyed it,
had housed the character of Larry the Bat. Through a top-
light high up near the ceiling above the French window,
which latter, a relic of past glory, opened on a level with the
floor, the moonlight flickered in. It disclosed in nebulous
outline a battered easel in one corner of the room, and near
it, against the wall and strewn upon the floor, a number of
canvases of different sizes. A cot bed, its covers in disorder,
occupied the wall space opposite the door. For the rest,
there were a filthy, threadbare rag of carpet upon the floor,
a battered table, a rickety washstand, and two disabled chairs.
Satisfied that the moonlight was the sole intruder, Jimmie
Dale nodded shortly to himself, and stepping abruptly for-
ward examined the drawn roller shade on the French win-
dow, and particularly a rent therein that was fastened to-
gether with a pin. Again he nodded. Then a diminutive
gas-jet, choked with air, hissed and spluttered under his
match, and supplanting the moonlight, threw a sickly yellow
glow about the room. He crossed then to the corner near
the door, knelt down on the floor, and after an instant's
work removed an ingeniously fitted section of the base-board.
From the aperture he took out the carefully folded dinner
suit which he had been wearing on the evening when he l.ad
last left his residence on Riverside Drive.
He began to cast off the shabby, disreputable garments
of Smarlinghue. He worked swiftly. With the clothes dis-
carded, there came another change. The hollow cheeks, the
thin, extended lips, the widened nostrils disappeared as little
distorting pieces of wax were removed. Before a cracked
mirror propped up on the rickety washstand, he washed away
the stain that previously had given a jaundiced, unhealthy
hue to his face and hands—and with minutest care took stock
of the result in the mirror.


THREADS
45
And then the light went out. The rest could be completed
in the darkness. Smarlinghue was no longer at home.
It was like a shadow now flitting soundlessly here and there
in the streak of moonlight. A minute, perhaps two, passed;
and then the pin that held together the rent in the window
shade was removed, and Jimmie Dale peered cautiously out
into the narrow, squalid, moonlit courtyard beyond. An-
other instant, and the French window opened noiselessly on
its carefully oiled hinges, and closed again. A figure, close
hugged against the wall of the building, stole along the few
intervening feet to the fence that divided the courtyard from
the lane. Here, next to the wall, a loosened plank swung
outward. The figure slipped through into the lane—and
Jimmie Dale, immaculate and faultlessly attired, emerged
upon the street from which, but a few minutes before,
Smarlinghue, the dope fiend, had vanished.
He walked rapidly now, heading over toward the Bow-
ery, and crossing that thoroughfare, innocuous now in the
early evening hours, continued on deeper into the East Side.
A half grim, half whimsical smile was on his lips. His ob-
jective was a little two-story, tumble-down house where an
old widow by the name of Mrs. Kinsey still kept, as she had
kept for more years than the East Side could remember,
a small and woefully unpretentious confectionery store. It
did not further the one interest he had in life now, this ob-
jective of his to-night; it would bring him no nearer to his
goal, so far as he could see, though it held a logical and
even intimate connection therewith. It was no “call to arms”
from the Tocsin that he
His pace slackened involuntarily, and there was a sudden
droop to the broad shoulders that were usually so straight.
The Tocsin! Where was she—while he, seeking to reach
her, groped and groped in pitiful failure, a blind man, a child
in strength, a fool in intellect! He clenched his hands. One
of those black moments again! One more added to the
thousand through which he had lived in the past two weeks.
Was she still alive?
He choked back a cry of bitter agony, and quickened his


46 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
pace again; but though his shoulders were once more thrown
back, a whiteness had been born into his face.
It was two weeks since she had left him that night in the
little boat on the East River, two weeks since the night
Gentleman Laroque, alias Isaac Shiftel, had so mysteriously
disappeared from that tenement room, and she had begun
again to battle alone for her existence, pitting her wits
against that unknown super-fiend of the underworld whom
she had styled the Phantom. And since that night Gentle-
man Laroque, both in that character and in the character
of Isaac Shiftel, had vanished as effectually as though he
had never existed; and there had been no word or sign from
her, save a short note that he had found, as once before in
the old days he had found one, hidden behind the movable
section of the base-board in the Sanctuary—and that was
now a week ago. He had destroyed it, torn it for safety's
sake into the same minute fragments that he always tore
her notes; but it still remained intact, for it had seared itself
word for word indelibly upon his brain.
“Dear Philanthropic Crook," she had written. "Oh, why will you
do it! You do not know your own danger. Apart from the police,
there is only one man who could be interested in the secret of Shif-
tel's room. That's you, Jimmie. They know that. Keep away
from the place. They expect you sooner or later. Oh, I beg of you
to keep away! It is a trap. Mother Margot, the new tenant, is one
of them. She is only there to throw dust in your eyes, and in the
eyes of the police.
"As for myself, I am safe so far, Jimmie; but I do not know how
much progress I have made. Sometimes I think I have already come
far along the road-and sometimes I seem lost again. Yesterday I
was sure of the Phantom's identity; to-day I am sure I was wrong;
to-morrow I shall be sure again—but it will be of a totally different
personality. You think, no doubt, that it is Shiftel, alias Laroque.
Well, perhaps, it is; but unless you and I are both swept out of the
road, neither in the one character nor the other will that man prob-
ably ever be heard of again. And so, oh, Jimmie, be careful-and
remember the trap. Marie.”
The last phrase was heavily underscored. The trap! It
brought a grim twist to his lips. He had already been in


THREADS
47
and out of the trap-and, from what she had said in her note,
at perhaps the only time when it had been safe so far as he
was concerned, paradoxical though that seemed, for he had
visited Shiftel's rooms again the night after the murder, and
while the police had, so fortunately it now appeared, oblig-
ingly done unconscious picket duty for him without. The
diamonds found in Shiftel's room had, thanks to the set
pieces, been almost immediately identified; and these,
coupled with their owner's murder, and the dead butler's
identification as an ex-Sing Sing convict, had aroused a
veritable furor in the papers. The police had wanted, and
still wanted, Shiftel very badly indeed, and so plain-clothes-
men for a week had unostentatiously watched the tenement
day and night on the chance that Shiftel would return. But
he, Jimmie Dale, had been even more interested in Shiftel's
erstwhile domicile than had the police; therefore he had
examined it, not entirely to his ultimate satisfaction, but
certainly unknown to the headquarters men, whom, not
being Shiftel, he had had little difficulty in eluding. The
result had been—nothing.
Then, again unknown to the police, he had joined forces
with them, and he, too, had watched the tenement. On the
first of the month, a week after Shiftel's disappearance, the
agent had re-rented the two miserable rooms to an old hag-
like creature known as Mother Margot. He had been aware
of that before the Tocsin's note had reached him. But
prior to that again Mother Margot had passed muster with
the police, who had thereupon withdrawn their forces, con-
sidering further surveillance of the premises unnecessary
and their hopes from that quarter at an end. But Mother
Margot had not passed muster with him, in spite of the fact
that his own investigation of the woman had resulted in
the discovery that she was, and had been for a year, a li-
censed pushcart vendor, a sort of travelling dry goods em-
porium, who hawked her wares in that ultra-foreign quar-
ter on Thompson Street, just off West Broadway, where
she with a hundred others of her ilk cluttered the narrow
street until it was well nigh impassable. He knew what the


THREADS
49
limped a paper which the latter had carefully tucked away
in his pocket; and then, as a waiter came in and left a tray of
glasses, the three had got their heads together around a table.
Jimmie Dale's brows furrowed now as he hurried along.
Again and again the blare of the jazz band had drowned out
their low tones. In the ten minutes during which he had
crouched there outside the window, he had caught no more
than snatches of their conversation; but those snatches had
been viciously significant. His mind mulled them over again
now; a half completed sentence from one, an interjection
from another. It had begun with Mother Margot.
"Mabbe dis Mrs. Kinsey person wid her tin-horn shop
ain't got so much!” she had cackled. “Mabbe youse'll lose
yer hundred !"
After that a jumble of words from one or other of the
three:
"... Forget it! ... Never banked a cent in her life.
... Up in the thousands, that's what; else where's the in-
surance alone that was a couple of thousand when the old
man bumped off two years ago ? ... The Chief never pulls
a bane. . . . The old girl's as deaf as a church congrega-
tion. ... She'll lead us to it. . . : Cop the sale to-night.
... Sure, about bedtime. ... No night-hawk, though. ...
You watch downstairs, I'll watch up. ..."
In actual detail he had learned little; but in general he had
learned enough to know that old Mrs. Kinsey was supposed
to possess a hidden store of savings, whose hiding place they
in some way expected to trick her into disclosing. The
thought of the police had come to him; that he might in some
way with safety and without involving his own personality
warn the police, instead of playing a lone hand in this him-
self. He smiled a little wanly. There was one very good
reason why he should not communicate with the police. This
Little Sweeney and the man who limped offered new fields
for investigation, widened his range of action, and were,
indeed, a reward for the days and nights that he had hung
upon Mother Margot's trail. They might, or they might not,
lead to something tangible; but certainly, for the moment,


50 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
he could not afford to see them in the toils of the police.
The alternative was stark enough. He could not stand by
inactive and see this miserable, sordid tragedy played out.
And so he had left the three in the back room of the Wis-
taria Café, and had hurried to the Sanctuary—and Smarling-
hue had become Jimmie Dale. That was all. That was why
he was here now, why he was approaching that little store
on the corner ahead, which, early as the evening was, not
more than nine o'clock, had its modest show window already
darkened for the night-he had not dared risk “Smarlinghue”
here; Smarlinghue, whose position in the underworld, that
had literally come to mean life and death to him again, would
crumble to dust before the slightest breath of suspicion.
But his visit to the Sanctuary, imperative though it had
been, had nevertheless taken time. Against this, however,
was the fact that the Sanctuary was not hopelessly out of the
direct road between the dance hall and Mrs. Kinsey's little
shop; and, besides, he had hurried. He smiled a little grimly.
They might, or they might not, have arrived before him; but,
in any case, there would not have been time enough for them
to have reached here, played out their game, and made their
get-away. In that latter respect, at least, it was quite cer-
tain—the grim smile deepened—that he could not possibly
be too late.
He had halted now on the edge of the curb, the intersecting
side street between himself and the small, two-story frame
house, where Mrs. Kinsey both lived and transacted her daily
business. The house was in darkness, save for a lighted
window in a lower, rear room that opened on the cross street.
And for a moment he stood here, then suddenly he moved
forward again—but this time along and across the side street
itself until he stood directly beneath the lighted window. His
question had been answered. Even from across the street,
and muffled though it necessarily had been, his ear had caught
the sound of a voice raised to an abnormal degree from the
interior of the house; and now through the curtains of what
was a small, plainly-furnished sitting room, he caught a
glimpse of a faded little old white-haired woman, in a faded


THREADS
51
little old black dress, whose wrinkled face was strained in
earnest attention as she strove to hear through a huge ear-
trumpet. Little Sweeney was standing in front of her, his
lips to the mouth of the trumpet.
"I said you were never looking better, Mrs. Kinsey !"
bawled Little Sweeney.
And then Jimmie Dale was gone.
A moment more, and he was standing nonchalantly at the
door of the little shop. There was apparently no other en-
trance to the house, and if Mrs. Kinsey had admitted Little
Sweeney as a caller, as appeared obvious, it must have been
through the shop, and the door therefore, in spite of the
shop itself being in darkness, should logically be unlocked.
And being unlocked it would also have given entrance to one
Limpy Mack and Mother Margot, who were both at the
present moment undoubtedly hidden in the house.
"I'll watch upstairs, you watch down,” repeated Jimmie
Dale softly to himself.
It was possible, though scarcely probable in view of the
fact that Mrs. Kinsey's deafness practically offered the free-
dom of the house, that he might run into that downstairs
watcher skulking here just inside the shop itself. Well, in
that case—he glanced sharply up and down the street that
for the moment held no near-by pedestrians—the play would
come to a very sudden and abrupt end!
His back was turned to the street now. From a pocket in
that curious leather girdle around his waist and under his
outer garments he took out a black silk mask and adjusted
it over his face. And now the slim, sensitive fingers pressed
down the door latch without a sound. His logic had not been
at fault. The door was unlocked. It began to open. Still
there was no sound. And then Jimmie Dale, his hand snug-
gled over his automatic in the side pocket of his dinner coat,
stood inside the shop with the door closed behind him.


-
V-
MOTHER MARGOT
10 challenge questioned Jimmie Dale's entry—there
was only the strident voice of Little Sweeney from
the rear room. The shop itself, as he had expected,
was not the vantage point chosen by either of Little
Sweeney's two confederates.
Jimmie Dale stole forward to the rear of the shop, where
through an open door there showed a glimmer of light, which,
though it seemed to be strangely obstructed, evidently came
from some sort of passage that connected the living quarters
of the house with the shop; and here, slipping in behind the
single counter that the shop boasted, he listened. Little
Sweeney was still bawling at the top of his voice.
"I've been thinking it over for the last few days," said
Little Sweeney.
“Please speak a little louder.” Mrs. Kinsey's voice came
plaintively through the darkness.
“Damn it!" said Little Sweeney in low and fervent tones;
and then in a veritable yell: “I said I'd been thinking it
over! THINKING IT OVER! Our little talk, you know,
of a few days ago, about buying out your confectionery
business. I promised to come back and let you know what
I was going to do about it.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Kinsey.
“Well,” shouted Little Sweeney, “I've decided to take a
chance and buy it, and I've brought you a hundred dollars to
bind the bargain.”
"But I couldn't think of selling it for a hundred dollars,"
protested Mrs. Kinsey feebly.
“Not SELLING it, just to bind the bargain,” screamed
Pleasely througha Little Sw
52


MOTHER MARGOT
53
Little Sweeney. “I'll give you the rest of the thousand when
we sign the papers.”
"Would you please speak a little louder," said Mrs. Kin-
sey anxiously. “Sometimes my hearing ain't quite so good
as it used to be.”
"I'll keep your secret!” gritted Little Sweeney in a hoarse
whisper ; then full-lunged again: “Here's a hundred-dollar
bill. You don't even need to give me any receipt for it. I'll
come across with the rest before the week's out. It's just to
show that I'm in earnest, and to keep anybody else from
buying the business.”
"I don't think anybody else would buy it," said the old
lady ingenuously.
"You've said a mouthful !” was Little Sweeney's sotto voce
retort.
"But I'm so glad," said Mrs. Kinsey wistfully. "I'll be
so glad, because I can't move around as spry as once I could.
And I was afraid I'd I wouldn't be able to go on with it
much longer."
“That's all right, Mrs. Kinsey," bellowed Little Sweeney
cordially. “I guess we're both satisfied with our bargain.
Here's the money. And I guess I'll be moving along. I'll
see you again in a day or so with the papers.”
"Thank you very much indeed,” said Mrs. Kinsey earn-
estly. “And I do so hope that you'll do well with it, and that
you won't lose anything."
A chair scraped. Footsteps came from the back passage-
way, which, as Jimmie Dale crouched lower behind the
counter, suddenly grew light. A moment more and Little
Sweeney stepped into the shop, making for the front door;
behind him followed Mrs. Kinsey, carrying in one hand a
lamp, and clutched in the other her ear-trumpet and a hun-
dred-dollar bill.
Jimmie Dale's lips set grimly. Back in the corridor that
was now darkened again he thought he saw a shadow move;
he distinctly caught the sound of a footstep. The down-
stairs watcher-and Mrs. Kinsey's hundred-dollar bill! It
was quite clear now, the whole mean, sordid, contemptible
$ the moretess we're Dingey," bellow


54 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
business. The bait was cunning enough in a low, vicious
way; amply cunning enough to succeed with a trusting, sim-
ple old woman already on the verge of her dotage. Where
Mrs. Kinsey, who distrusted banks, had secreted her savings
of years, she would secret a hundred-dollar bill.
Little Sweeney—in lieu, no doubt, of shouting on the
street-bowed himself out politely.
"Good-night,” said Mrs. Kinsey. "And thank you again.”
She closed and locked the door, and came back through
the shop, passing again into the rear hallway.
As the light receded, Jimmie Dale rose cautiously. Mrs.
Kinsey's lamp, as she had passed, disclosed the fact that
just beyond the rear door of the shop, the passageway made
a jut at right angles. He nodded tersely to himself as he
gained this with the trained step, so silent as to be almost
uncanny, that had mocked at even the creaky boards of the
old Sanctuary, and, in the shadows himself now, he peered
along the hallway proper.
Steep, narrow stairs, to the left and a little way down
the hall, led to the upper story. Mrs. Kinsey, still carrying
her lamp, still clutching at her ear-trumpet and the hundred-
dollar bill, was already near the top. The lower portion
of the stairs and the hall itself, since her body shaded the
lamp, were in almost complete darkness.
And then from somewhere above there came a sharp,
whispered interrogation:
“Well?”
From along the lower hall, her figure shrouded in the
blackness, a woman's voice answered:
"She's still got it. Watch her.”
Mother Margot! Limpy Mack, then, was the upstairs
watcher. There seemed something incongruous in this
passage of words between the two, like a stage aside that
was not supposed to be heard by the intervening figure of
the old woman who was climbing the stairs; but it was not
the incongruity in itself, it was the callous brutality, the
vulture-like preying upon helpless infirmity, that hardened
Jimmie Dale's face now in a sort of merciless intentness.


MOTHER MARGOT
55
Mrs. Kinsey's light disappeared around the landing at
the head of the stairs, and then, contemptuous of any exag-
gerated attempt at silence, another footstep sounded on the
stair treads. Jimmie Dale could not see, it was pitch black
in the lower hall now, but it was not necessary to see the
obvious. Mother Margot was following Mrs. Kinsey up-
. stairs.
And now there came the sound as of some one walking
about in a room overhead for a moment or so, and then
silence.
Jimmie Dale moved toward the stairs, and without a
sound began to make his way upward. Halfway up he
paused, and stood tight-pressed against the wall. He could
just detect a glow of light filtering into the upper hallway,
as though the door of a lighted room, almost directly above.
his head, stood open into the hall. Then a footstep and still
another, starting from a position further back along the hall,
moved toward the lighted doorway. Came then the sound
as of a piece of furniture being moved on squeaky casters;
and then a low-breathed, exultant oath in a man's voice,
followed by a woman's vicious chuckle. He could almost
discern the outlines of two figures there--Mother Margot
and Limpy Mack.
"Pipe de lay!” chuckled Mother Margot. “Dere goes
Little Sweeney's century buck. Look at her saltin' it!"
“Close your trap!” ordered Limpy Mack sharply. “Maybe
she can't hear, but that's no reason for taking a chance of
spilling the beans now we know where they are.”
"Aw, forget it! Youse gives me a pain!" retorted Mother
Margot acidly, but in a nevertheless more subdued tone.
"Youse'd have to write her a letter to tell her youse was
makin' a noise before she'd be wise to it, an' mabbe den she
wouldn't believe youse!"
“Shut your face !” said Limpy Mack tersely.
The sound of what had seemed to Jimmie Dale like
squeaky casters came again, then a footstep traversed
the lighted room, a door-obviously one connecting with an


MOTHER MARGOT
57
panion had obviously just entered. He nodded now in quick
self-corroboration. Out of the darkness of the room, lancing
it in a little white shaft of light, there came the ray of an
electric torch, and two figures were outlined as they bent
over a piece of furniture that stood against the far wall, and
that looked like an old chest of drawers. But there was no
squeak of casters now. Jimmie Dale smiled uninvitingly.
They were becoming unduly cautious! The piece of furni-
ture was being lifted, not rolled, until it stood out from the
wall, the back of it exposed.
For a moment the two figures leaned over it, the flashlight
playing on the back of the dresser; and then from its extreme
edge, what looked like a very narrow drawer, its depth almost
half of the dresser itself, was pulled out.
“S'help me!” Mother Margot's voice quivered in curious,
sibilant excitement. “Say, de old skirt's rich !”
“Was,” corrected Limpy Mack's voice curtly. "Keep
your paws off! We'll make the split to-morrow. In the
meantime I'll take care of it. See? Hold the flashlight.”
"Sure!” sniffed Mother Margot. "Youse're de only
honest one in de bunch. I know 'cause Little Sweeney told
me !"
A man's hand dipped into the projecting drawer, dis-
appeared nearly up to the elbow, and came out again with
a fistful of banknotes which he stuffed into his pocket.
Again the man plunged in his hand. Jimmie Dale roce to
his feet, took a step forward-and halted abruptly, as
Mother Margot's voice suddenly shrilled out tensely through
the silence:
"My Gawd! Listen! Wot's dat? Over by de door!”
Jimmie Dale's jaws clamped together, as his automatic
swung up into line. Strange! He could have sworn he had
not made the slightest sound. He saw Limpy Mack step
forward a pace and stand facing the doorway, listening in-
tently. And then Jimmie Dale's face relaxed. Behind
Limpy Mack's back Mother Margot's hand shot stealthily
into the drawer, and a wad of bills disappeared stealthily
inside her blouse. Once more she helped herself.


58 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
paus.coming fromlong the hannut
With a queer, grim droop to the corners of his mouth,
Jimmie Dale retreated suddenly back along the hall, and a
little beyond the head of the stairs. Mother Margot! The
gods were good! There would be more in the night after
all than the mere salvaging of old Mrs. Kinsey's savings.
He had no intention now of interrupting the two at their
work! Mother Margot had wrought a very drastic change
in his plans!
"I don't hear anything !" Limpy Mack's voice growled
after a moment. “What's the matter with you?”
"I guess I'm gettin' de creeps," Mother Margot's voice re-
plied. “I t'ought I heard somethin' creak, but I guess it
was de wind. Hurry up, Limpy! I wanter get out of dis.
I'm gettin' de creeps, dat's wot's de matter wid me."
Perhaps another two minutes passed, and then Jimmie
Dale, far back along the hall now, heard the footsteps of the
two coming from the room. At the head of the stairs they
paused, and Limpy Mack spoke gruffly:
"We don't want to take the chance of being seen leaving
here together. You're safe enough, because if any one saw
you, they'd think you were just a friend of the old dame.
You wait here, give me five minutes, then beat it yourself.
And you go straight home! You'll get what's coming to you
to-morrow after the Chief's made the split. We don't meet
again to-night unless something breaks, and in that case you
know where to find me. Understand?".
Jimmie Dale smiled quietly in the darkness. He owed
Limpy Mack thanks for that, at least-it would save him
from following Mother Margot.
"Sure!" mocked Mother Margot. “Cookin' a pill in yer
dump under Sen Yat's! Why don't youse come across wid
de price of a bunk, an' give de Chink a chance once in a
while?”
Limpy Mack, without answer, descended the stairs. From
the lower hall, faintly, there came the soft tap-tap of his
rubber-tipped cane. Presently the shop door opened and
closed gently.
Jimmie Dale moved silently forward. He could just dis-


MOTHER MARGOT
59
tinguish Mother Margot's figure as a dark blur at the head
of the stairs. She, too, now began to descend.
And then Jimmie Dale spoke.
"I'll keep you company downstairs, Mother Margot,” he
said softly—and the flashlight in his hand, stabbing suddenly
through the darkness, played its ray upon her.
She whirled with a low, terrified cry, and put her hands
before her blinking eyes as though to ward off a blow.
"Who's dat? Who're youse?” she cried out.
"Go on, Mother Margot-downstairs,” Jimmie Dale
prompted more brusquely.
She obeyed in a stumbling, uncertain way.
"My Gawd! My Gawd!” she mumbled wildly. “Who're
youse? A dick? I ain't done nothin'! I swear to Gawd,
I ain't! I swear- ”
“Quite so !” interrupted Jimmie Dale coolly, as they
reached the lower hall. “But perhaps you will come across
just the same."
She stared at the hand which he had extended significantly
in the flashlight's glow, and from under a bedraggled hat
whose brim flapped over her straggling gray hair and fell
into her eyes, she blinked again; she drew the old threadbare
black shawl she wore closer around her shoulders, and
clutched at it where it met at her neck.
“I dunno wot youse mean,” she croaked hoarsely. “Come
across wid wot?”
"With what Limpy Mack didn't get." Jimmie Dale was
biting off his words now. “There was somebody at the door,
even if you didn't hear him. I can use that money myself
that you put inside your blouse. And I'm waiting—also I'm
in a hurry!"
"Youse ain't a dick, den!” She seemed relieved in the
sense that rage and fury now supplanted fear. She snarled
at him. "Why didn't youse touch Limpy? I only got a
dollar or two."
"I haven't forgotten Limpy," Jimmie Dale answered
evenly. His hand was still extended. “Quick !” he snapped
suddenly.


60 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
For an instant she hesitated, then snarling again, she felt
inside her blouse and brought out a few crumpled banknotes.
Jimmie Dale thrust the money into his pocket—and ex-
tended his hand again.
"Dat's all!” she announced tartly. “Wot d'youse expect?
I didn't have no chance!"
Jimmie Dale smiled thinly.
"Loosen the waistband of your blouse!” he ordered
sharply.
She glared at him fiercely.
"I won't,” she shrilled out. “Youse can go to blazes! I
told youse dat was all. I won't!"
"Oh, yes; I think you will,” returned Jimmie Dale grimly.
"When I leave you I am going to call on your friend Limpy
Mack, and if I explain the double cross you put over on him,
I imagine
She changed front instantly. Fear seemed to have her in
its grip again.
"Youse won't do dat!” She was whimpering suddenly.
“My Gawd, youse won't do dat!"
"It depends,” said Jimmie Dale.
"Den take it !” she mumbled in a frenzied way—and from
the loosened blouse a small shower of banknotes fluttered to
the floor.
Jimmie Dale stooped and gathered them up.
“That's better!” he observed coolly. “And now we'll go
a little further, Mother Margot. I want quite a lot of in-
formation. First, this Limpy Mack's dump, as you called it
on the stairs. Does he live there alone?”
“Oh, my Gawd!” She was wringing her hands together in
terror. “Youse ain't still goin' dere, are youse? Youse
ain't goin' to tell him, are youse? He'd pass de word along,
an' if de Chief got wise dey'd bump me off for dis. I
dey'd clean me up before de mornin'!"
“So I imagined,” said Jimmie Dale calmly. “That's why
I refrained from any interference upstairs. You see, Mother
Margot, I rather think we have become indispensable to each
other.”


MOTHER MARGOT
"I dunno wot youse mean,” she faltered.
"I mean this,” said Jimmie Dale coldly, “that if you play
straight with me, you are safe in so far as what you put
over on your precious pals is concerned. Otherwise"
He shrugged his shoulders. “Is it quite plain ?"
Mother Margot licked her lips feverishly.
“Dey'd cut me t'roat!" she whispered. “Dat's wot dey'd
do. Wot do youse want? I-I ain't got no chance, have I?”
"We started with Limpy Mack, and we'll finish with him
first,” said Jimmie Dale tersely; “though you've just men-
tioned something much more important. Well, does he live
alone?"
"Sure, he lives alone,” Mother Margot answered. "He's
got de basement— ".
“Under Sen Yat's," completed Jimmie Dale smoothly.
"All right! Now, the really important matter. This Chief
you mentioned—who is he?".
Mother Margot shook her head.
"I dunno,” she said.
"You don't know !” Jimmie Dale's voice hardened. “That
won't do, Mother Margot! I wouldn't advise you to try
another trick to-night.”
"I ain't!" she protested wildly. "Honest to Gawd, I
ain't! I dunno!” She was wringing her hands together
again. "He ain't nobody, he's”—she glanced furtively
around her, the act seemingly almost subconscious—“he's—
he's just a voice.”
Jimmie Dale studied her for a moment. The woman was
evidently too frightened to be anything but truthful.
"Well, go on!” he prodded.
“Dat's all I knows about him," said Mother Margot fear-
fully. “Just a voice over de telephone dat youse're always
wise to 'cause it's a kind of a queer, thick voice.”
"Is that the way you get your orders, then?”
Mother Margot nodded assent.
“But there isn't any telephone in your room,” said Jimmie
Dale sharply. "I happen to know that you've just moved
in where another pal of yours, Mr. Isaac Shiftel, used to live.”


64 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
"My Gawd!” She was whimpering again. "I-I'm
afraid. Youse swear it?"
Jimmie Dale opened the door, and with a precautionary
glance up and down the street, pushed her not ungently out
into the night.
"I swear it,” he said. "Good-night, Mother Margot.”


= VI
THE MAN WITH THE RUBBER-TIPPED CANE
THE black silk mask gone from his face, Jimmie Dale
too stepped out of Mrs. Kinsey's little shop, and
hurried away—but in an opposite direction to that
taken by Mother Margot. And now he smiled as he went
along. To-morrow, if he had luck, Mrs. Kinsey would get
her money back, all of it, say by registered mail, and ac-
companied by a suggestion that she would be better advised
to use a bank hereafter; a suggestion which fright at the
discovery of her loss would probably have the salutary effect
of causing her to act upon without loss of time!
He hurried on—and ten minutes later, deep in the Chinese
quarter, in the neighbourhood of Chatham Square, in a nar-
row, crooked, evil-smelling, little street, in fact more an
alleyway than a thoroughfare, he was strolling past the en-
trance of a shuttered tea store that bore the sign: SEN YAT.
Again he smiled a little to himself—but now from a different
cause. It was quite true that Sen Yat dealt in tea; but it
was equally true that upstairs behind the shutters Sen Yat
also specialised in another commodity of the East, and to
those who had the price and were “safe” the sorry solace of
the poppy was always at instant command.
An old and unkempt woman, mumbling to herself, shuf-
fled by. A Chinaman, like a rat taking to its hole, disap-
peared down a basement entrance from the sidewalk a few
yards away. Jimmie Dale turned suddenly. The street for
the moment was clear. He retraced his steps to another
basement entrance, the one below Sen Yat's, and out of the
darkness of which, as he had previously passed by, a crack
of light seeping from under the door sill had already in-
formed him that Limpy Mack had returned home.
65


66 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
And then Jimmie Dale was gone from the street-and
down the half dozen steps was crouching in the blackness
below the sidewalk at Limpy Mack's door. Again the silk
mask was slipped over his face; again his fingers sought a
pocket in the little leather girdle and the next instant were
silently and deftly at work with a pick-lock.
Perhaps a minute passed. Then Jimmie Dale straightened
up, swung the door open, and like a flash was inside the room
with the door closed behind him.
A startled oath greeted his entrance. Limpy Mack, peaked
cap drawn over his eyes, was seated at a table on which
burned an oil lamp. His heavy, rubber-tipped cane also lay
across the table. He snatched at this now in lieu of a sheaf
of banknotes which he let fall from his hands, and which he
had evidently been engaged in counting-and rose, half
threateningly, half defensively, to his feet.
“Good evening!” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "I seem
to be in luck to-night.”
His automatic indicated the sheaf of notes, and then held
on Limpy Mack. Jimmie Dale's glance swept swiftly, crit-
ically around the place. Its furnishings were few and of
the crudest; a bed in one corner, near a second door that
conveniently opened on the back yard no doubt; a wash-
stand minus one leg, and therefore askew, that boasted a
streaked and badly blistered mirror; the table and chair in
front of the washstand; a dirty, unswept floor, bare of car-
pet-and that was all. The place reeked with filth.
"Nice quiet little resort you've got here,” smiled Jimmie
Dale. His eyes were apparently roving again about the
cellar-like room, apparently everywhere save on Limpy
Mack. "I'm sure you—drop that!”
A revolver, almost free from Limpy Mack's pocket, fell
with a clatter to the floor. The man screamed out in rage.
"Why, Limpy, that's raw," said Jimmie Dale in a pained
way. “I didn't think you'd fall for it. All I wanted was
your gun.” He advanced to the table, and kicked the weapon
across the floor under the bed.
There was a sudden swish through the air, as, quick


MAN WITH THE RUBBER-TIPPED CANE 67
without warning, Limpy Mack aimed a blow with his cane at
Jimmie Dale's wrist and automatic. It missed. Again the
man screamed out in fury.
Jimmie Dale's face set.
"Don't raise your voice again like that,” he said in flat
tones. “Sit down!" His automatic swung to the level of
the other's eyes.
With a snarl, Limpy Mack subsided into the chair. He
scowled at Jimmie Dale.
“Who are you, anyway, you damned thug ?” he demanded
thickly.
"I'll tell you,” said Jimmie Dale. He was smiling whim-
sically now—not at Limpy Mack, but at the somewhat ex-
acting demands of the situation in which he found himself.
Mother Margot must in no way appear in this; and, besides
that money on the table, there was the paper that Little
Sweeney had given to Limpy Mack in Mother Margot's
presence-a paper, in reference to the contents of which,
he, Jimmie Dale, had acquired an intense curiosity. Os-
tensibly, therefore, he must appear-in order that no thought
of Mother Margot might by any chance enter the other's
mind—to be ignorant of even the existence of the paper,
and yet, at the same time, get hold of it. “I'll tell you,” said
Jimmie Dale. “I was walking down a certain street to-
night, and I saw you sneak out of a little confectionery store
that looked as though it had all been closed up for the night,
and I said to myself: "That's funny, because Limpy Mack
never plays for chicken feed.' And then I went and read
the sign on the window, and I remembered that everybody
said Mrs. Kinsey had a well-filled stocking hidden away
somewhere. So I just took a chance, Limpy, thinking that
maybe you'd found it, and I followed you. And as I said
before, I seem to have played in luck.”
"It's a lie!” growled Limpy Mack. "That ain't Mrs.
Kinsey's, or anybody else's money. It's mine."
"I'm delighted to know it,” murmured Jimmie Dale. "But
even so, I still insist that I am in luck to-night. There must


68 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
be quite a few thousand here." He began to thrust the bills
into his pockets.
Limpy Mack sat crouched down in his chair, the posture
seeming to accentuate almost to deformity his stooped
shoulders.
"Damn you !” he shrieked out. He gnawed at his un-
kempt gray moustache, and flung another oath at Jimmie
Dale.
Jimmie Dale swept the table clean. It was obviously all
that Limpy Mack had stolen from Mrs. Kinsey, for he would
obviously have had it all out to count it—but there was still
a certain paper in Limpy Mack's pocket.
“I wonder-since you say it was yours—if you haven't
got some more,” suggested Jimmie Dale invitingly. "I'm
afraid I'll have to trouble you to turn your pockets out,
Limpy. Stand up!"
"I–I ain't got any more.” The man seemed suddenly
cowed. He crouched still lower in his chair.
"Stand up!" repeated Jimmie Dale sternly. "Now I'm
quite sure you have !"
"No!" Limpy Mack was whining now. "I—I'll tell you
the truth. I got it where you said. But that's all—all of it
was on the table. Say, you believe me, don't you? I'd come
across if I had any more, wouldn't I? I couldn't help my-
self.”
The man was blatantly stalling now. The paper was-no,
it wasn't on account of the paper. Behind Limpy Mack's
back something showed in the blistered mirror—the head
and shoulders of Little Sweeney protruding through the rear
doorway, and in Little Sweeney's hand a levelled revolver.
Limpy Mack's voice had drowned out any sound made by the
opening of the door, if, indeed, there had been any sound
at all.
Jimmie Dale's brain was working in lightning flashes now,
but not a muscle of his face moved. His automatic dangling
in his hand was useless. To swing it on the door with only
a chance aim would be but the signal for Little Sweeney
to fire.
quitado!" Li got it whey, you be


MAN WITH THE RUBBER-TIPPED CANE 69
a yell from Lime, from the doorwahe roar of
darkness as the little Sweeney's the flash and ro
“All right, Limpy,” said Jimmie Dale, and leaned slightly
toward the end of the table. “I'll take your word for it
that-
And then Jimmie Dale was in action. With a sweep of
his hand he sent the lamp crashing from the table to the
floor, and ducked instantly to one side.
There was a yell from Limpy Mack; and, in the sudden
darkness as the lamp went out, from the doorway came the
tongue-flame of Little Sweeney's revolver and the roar of
the report. Then a rush of feet, the flash and roar of the
revolver again, and the next instant Jimmie Dale was locked
in a hand to hand struggle with Little Sweeney. Here and
there they swayed, the breath of one, panting, hard, on the
other's cheek; the table toppled to the floor, carrying the
chair with it; their feet crunched on the splintered glass
from the lamp and chimney—and then suddenly Jimmie Dale
reeled from a terrific blow across the head.
"I got him!” screamed Limpy Mack's voice exultantly.
"I got him, Sweeney! I beaned him with the loaded handle
of my cane."
But though dazed, lurching, scarcely able to keep his feet,
Jimmie Dale was still fighting like a wildcat. Twice since
Little Sweeney had grappled with him, he had managed to
strike the other with the butt of his automatic. He had only
one chance now—to end it quickly—he was too nearly gone
himself. He wrenched himself suddenly free, and swung
again with all his strength. A gurgling voice-Little Swee-
ney's—answered the blow:
“Look out—Limpy_beat it-you know why—that paper
--beat it-I- "
Again and again Jimmie Dale brushed his hand across his
eyes. He fought desperately to clear his brain. His head
was sick and dizzy. What was that sound, that strange,
queer sound? Tap, tap, tap! Little Sweeney—that black
outline on the floor was Little Sweeney–Little Sweeney
wouldn't trouble any one for an hour or so—but that tap,
tap, tap-it sounded from the direction of the rear door.
And now it was gone, and there was silence—just silence.


MAN WITH THE RUBBER-TIPPED CANE "71
smile. If the blow from the loaded cane had not proved too
much for him after all, it would not be he who made that
move!
And now, after a time, where he had heard no sound be-
fore, he became conscious of many sounds—the low indis-
tinct sound of muffled things, the night sounds of a tenanted
building filtering vaguely out from behind closed doors only
to integrate themselves in a queer, throbbing way into the
very silence itself. How long had he been standing here?
Once he clutched frantically, but noiselessly, at the wall to
keep himself erect. Perhaps it would not be Limpy Mack
who moved first! His brain was swimming in that sick,
nauseating way again. Perhaps it would be
A door began to open cautiously a few yards along the hall.
And then a man's head and shoulders, a man with a clean
shaven face and slouch hat showing quite distinctly in the
lighted doorway, was thrust out. The man peered around;
then from the threshold he whispered back into the room:
"It's a cinch he thought you beat it straight out through
the front door, and went out after you. I'll take a look, and
if he's still hanging around outside I'll spot him. You keep
under cover, Limpy. You're safe here anyway. I'll be back
in ten minutes. Savvy ?"
The man, a broad-shouldered, well set-up fellow, stepped
out into the hall, and closed the door behind him. His foot-
steps echoed back as he walked rapidly toward the front of
the tenement; then the front door opened and closed again;
the footsteps rang faintly from the pavement without, died
away—and Jimmie Dale was standing before the door of the
room.
He had not heard the door being locked. He was sure of
that, in spite of the fact that his head was whirling like a
top. His fingers closed silently on the doorknob—and with
a swift movement, standing in the hall, his automatic thrown
forward, he flung the door wide open.
And then for a moment he stood there like a man stunned.
The room was empty. No, not empty! Dangling from the
gas-jet hung Limpy Mack's rubber-tipped cane; and stuck


72 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
upon the cane, flaunting itself in grim, ironical, mocking
challenge—was a diamond-shaped gray paper seal.
A smile of understanding, bitter in its chagrin, flickered
across Jimmie Dale's lips. He had stuck a gray seal on the
back of Shiftel's hand that night two weeks ago. This one,
he was sure, could have come from nowhere else; and, if that
were so, then Shiftel, and Gentleman Laroque, and Limpy
Mack, and Limpy Mack in still another guise, in the guise
of the man who had just tricked him so neatly, were all one.
And from that encounter in Shiftel's rooms, and one other
encounter long before that at Niccolo Sonnino's place, Gen-
tleman Laroque, alias Isaac Shiftel, in the character of
Limpy Mack to-night, had known that he was dealing with
the Gray Seal from the moment his room under Sen Yat's
had been entered—could not help but have known it. And
at the last here, the man, being then disarmed, had had no
choice but to resort to his wits as the only means of escape.
Yes, he, Jimmie Dale, quite understood !
He had sought, and found, and lost again the Phantom.


- VII -
THE MESSAGE
AYS of searching! Days of futility! Days that had
brought no reward! Since the night of Limpy
Mack's disappearance there had been only failure.
Nowhere had he been able to pick up again a thread or clue
that would set him once more upon the Phantom's trail-
until to-night. And to-night? Jimmie Dale shook his head.
He was at sea, troubled—about to-night.
Threadbare, gaunt-cheeked, dissolute in appearance, his
battered old felt hat pulled down over his eyes, he was
slouching now, as Smarlinghue, with apparent aimlessness
along the street. Past him, going to and fro, other figures
shuffled by—for the most part Chinamen, their crossed hands
tucked in the sleeves of their blouses. A slumming party
from a "gape-wagon” disembarked its load of candidates for
initiation into those most dark, drear, shivery and hidden
things of Chinatown, whose storied mysteries in this more
enlightened generation were now within the reach of all-
for the insignificant sum of one dollar a ticket!
A twisted smile flickered across Jimmie Dale's lips. This
jostling little crowd that was being herded into line now by
the stentorian voiced barker would see many things, for the
stage was always set. They would see most fearsome opium
dens that reeked with the sickly sweetish smell of poppy,
where no poppy was; they would see the worshippers at the
Shrine of the Thousandth Ancestor; they would see the
council chambers where the Tong wars were declared, and
most ghastly murders hatched; they would see the China-
men at their fan-tan; and Jimmie Dale shrugged his
shoulders—they would undeniably get their money's worth.
deniablynmie Dald see thared, and
73


74 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
It was quite innocent, and everybody would be satisfied; but
into Hip Foo's, for instance, where he was going now, from
whose tortuous, bunk-lined, connecting sub-cellars there were
two exits separated one from the other by almost a block,
and again from the entrance by an entirely different street,
their tickets would not take them. Hip Foo made no money
from the gape-wagons!
The scene, though it was still before him, was gone from
his consciousness as quickly as the train of thought that had
obtruded itself upon him, and his mind was instantly back
again now on the note that had been laid beside his plate
by one of the attendants at the St. James Club, where he
had been dining but little more than half an hour ago. The
note had contained a single sentence-in the Tocsin's
writing:
"Watch Mother Margot-at Hip Foo's to-night.”
His lips closed tightly. Was there anything beneath the
surface of that one sentence, anything more than its actual
wording, anything of a personal nature? He had been
turning it over and over in his mind from the moment he had
received it, even while he had hurried to the Sanctuary and
from a millionaire clubman had become the drug-wrecked
Smarlinghue, even now again as he walked here along this
none too well lighted and unsavory street in the heart of
New York's Chinatown. The note was like none he had ever
received from her before. Here there was no detailed plan
laid out, no evident foreknowledge of what was afoot. It
seemed almost a call for help where she herself was help-
less, and somit brought the blood pounding in quicker tempo
through his veins—it might well be she had realised and was
prepared at last to accept as inevitable the fact that, whether
she would or no, he meant to force his way if it were hu-
manly within his power into those shadows, as she termed
them, with which the Phantom had surrounded her. Well,
why not? She must know that he had already been in per-
haps closer, more intimate touch than even herself with this


THE MESSAGE
75
master criminal of a score of aliases and a score of domi-
ciles, first as Gentleman Laroque, then as Isaac Shiftel, and
again as Limpy Mack. And besides there was her promise
that-no! He shook his head a little bitterly. Why should
he try to blind his own eyes? Her promise to call upon him
for aid had contained the proviso that it would not identify
him as an ally of hers in the Phantom's eyes.
It was a foolish hope fathered only by desire! A hope
that out of this watching of Mother Margot to-night at Hip
Foo's he and the woman that he loved would come together
again, that he would see her, hear her voice, and after that
-Yes, she knew that, too! She had said so in the letter
she had slipped into the pocket of his coat when she had
left him that night on the old East River wharf. She knew
that once he found her again no legion of Phantoms, no
pleading on her part, could keep him from her side until the
end, whatever that end might be. He might shake his head
if he chose, he might argue speciously with himself as his
love prompted him to do, but in his heart he knew that her
note to-night would not bring her and himself together un-
less—yes, that was it!-to-night saw the end of the Phan-
tom's career.
The end! That brought still another angle into the Toc-
sin's message, an angle that was represented by this Mother
Margot. His eyes grew grimly thoughtful as he walked
along. How far was the old hag to be trusted? How much
to be depended upon was the hold he had on her through
having caught her in the act of purloining an extra share of
the loot from one of her own confederates, who though she
evidently did not know it herself, had been the Phantom in
the guise of Limpy Mack that night at old Mrs. Kinsey's ?
His hands had been tied in a measure in respect of Mother
Margot. True, since that night he had never lost track of
her, but his means of communication had been restricted
to the same means that the “Voice,” as she called the Phan-
tom, had employed-of calling her from her pushcart in
Thompson Street to that telephone booth she had spoken
of in Mezzo's second-hand store, and questioning her. This


76 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
he had done each day, sometimes more than once; but the
result had always been the same. Each time she had sworn
that she had heard nothing further from the Voice. And
yet to-night she was to be watched at Hip Foo's!
Was she playing fast and loose? He had not been in per-
sonal touch with her-that was where the weakness of his
position lay. She knew him to be the Gray Seal, but she
knew him only as a man with a mask on his face. He could
not stand beside her pushcart on Thompson Street, and,
wearing a mask, talk to her. He could not go to her as
Smarlinghue and risk even the suspicion that Smarlinghue
had any connection with the Gray Seal, let alone being the
Gray Seal himself! A word from her, if that thought ever
entered her mind, or anybody else's for that matter, and
underworld and police would join hands in the one cause
that could ever be common to both, and fight as only two
packs of wolves might fight for the prey that only one could
have.
It was not a pleasant thought!
He withdrew his hands suddenly from his ragged pockets,
and, stooping down, picked up a crumpled newspaper from
tre gutter, as the flaring red type of a headline caught his
eye. He glanced at it, and pitched it away again almost
immediately. He had been interested to know if it were a
special edition announcing some new development in the
case of one Connie Pfeffer, alias the Mole. It did not. It
was just re-hash.
He smiled wryly. The Gray Seal, “that depraved and
degenerate glutton who feasted and lived like some ghoul
upon his foul notoriety, and who, with inhuman boastfulness,
left his diamond-shaped gray seal upon the scene of every
one of his fiendish crimes,” the usual stand-by of the sensa-
tional headliners, had of late been relegated to obscurity by
the newspapers. It was a relief! For the time being the
crime that held the public attention was that in which this
Connie Pfeffer was involved, but this was more, as a mat-
ter of fact, because of the opportunity it afforded for a jeer
at the police rather than on account of the actual crime itself.
eye. He glan He had been some new devel" It did no
specishlately. He halt; and pitchet a headline Pa


THE MESSAGE
For two days the journals had been full of the Levenson
Bank robbery, a private bank in the Wall Street district,
where a customer, having just drawn out ten thousand dol-
lars in twenty five-hundred-dollar bills, had been held up
almost in front of the teller's wicket at the point of a re-
volver and relieved of his cash. Connie Pfeffer, alias the
Mole, who had answered to the description of the robber,
had been apprehended within an hour of the crime by the
police, released again for lack of evidence against him-and
then had promptly disappeared. New evidence establishing
the fact that Connie Pfeffer was the man who had entered
the bank had almost immediately come to light, but Connie
Pfeffer was no longer to be found, and the police
Jimmie Dale swung sharply around. Some one was pluck-
ing at his sleeve-a tattered and stoop-shouldered old man,
who had a tray slung around his neck upon which was dis-
played a pitiful array of cheap collar buttons.
“Hello, Smarly!” The man spoke low, out of the corner
of his mouth. "Say, Smarly, I wanter ask youse some-
thin'."
For an instant Jimmie Dale surveyed the other. It was
Pedler Joe, and Pedler Joe lived just around the corner from
the Sanctuary and was therefore in the category of an old
acquaintance and neighbour ; but his, Jimmie Dale's, busi-
ness to-night was at Hip Foo's, and he had no time to waste.
"Hello, Joe!” he returned a little ungraciously. “Didn't
know you went in for night work. There's a gape-bus back
there, and the bunch have gone into Charlie Wong's lay-out.
If you stick around when they come you may get away
with something."
"I ain't out for business—not dat kind,” the man whispered
—and still holding Jimmie Dale's coat sleeve, edged out to
the curb and halted. "I'm lookin' for some one. Every-
body says youse're on de level, Smarly. Youse bats around
a lot in places dey won't let me into, so hand it to me straight.
Have youse seen Connie anywhere, youse knows who I mean,
de Mole?"
Jimmie Dale stared. It was rather curious, rather much of


78 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
a coincidence! He had been thinking of Connie Pfeffer,
alias the Mole, at the moment Pedler Joe had accosted him.
And coincidences in the Bad Lands were not always-coin-
cidences !
It was Smarlinghue of the underworld, not Jimmie Dale
the millionaire clubman, who .spoke.
"What's the lay?" His tones pointed the inquiry with
almost exaggerated suspicion.
"Aw, it's straight!" the old man answered. “I'm askin'
youse just dat. Have youse seen him, or heard anythin'
about him?"
Jimmie Dale still parried the question.
“Sounds like you'd shoved your stake in with the bulls,"
he scowled. “Did they give you a badge to pin inside your
vest? What have you got to do with Connie?”
The old man's face was haggard; he evidently had not
shaved for several days, and the short white bristles seemed
to accentuate a general woe-begone aspect and feebleness
that age and the thin, stooped shoulders already proclaimed
loudly enough.
"I got a lot to do wid him," the old man said hoarsely.
"He's like my own kid, dat's wot he is. I ain't done much
for him mabbe, but I done wot I could to keep him straight,
an'-- "
“You !" Jimmie Dale laughed outright. Pedler Joe's life
history was written on the police blotters! The man had
served at least a half dozen sentences in prison. True, Ped-
ler Joe in his declining years—he must be verging on the
seventies now-had, outwardly at least, reformed to the
extent of earning his living as a legalised mendicant, as wit-
ness the collar buttons. But as a guardian and sponsor for
young morals— Jimmie Dale, as Smarlinghue, grinned
viciously. "Say, it's no wonder he pulled that bank job!
He comes by it honestly! Say, what's the "
Jimmie Dale's grin had died away. Something was wrong
here; there was something deeper than appeared on the sur-
face, something that he did not understand. The tears had


THE MESSAGE
79
come suddenly into the faded old eyes, and were trickling
now down the wrinkled cheeks.
"Forget it, Joe!” Jimmie Dale laid his hand in quick
sympathy on the other's shoulder. “I didn't mean to hand
you nothing. Spill the story, Joe-only hurry, 'cause I got
a dateicked him out. An' w'en Sounds li
"I picked him outer de gutter w'en he could hardly walk,"
said Pedler Joe. “An' w'en I wasn't doin' spaces up de
river, I kept my eye on him. Sounds like hell from an old
lag, don't it? But it's true, Smarly, so help me Gawd, it's
true! I wasn't runnin' straight myself, but wot chance I
got I tried to show de kid my line wasn't any good. Only
I was away a lot, an' I let him down, so it ain't all his fault.
Dere wasn't no one to keep him from goin' wild w'en I was
doin' time-see? He ain't lived wid me for years, but dat
didn't keep him from comin' frequent to see me, I'll say
dat for him. An' den dis bank job happened. If youse read
de papers youse know he was pinched in my place dat after-
noon. He blew in to get a little stake from me, an'- "
"From you!" Jimmie Dale interrupted. “I didn't know
you had loose change to- "
"Some days,” said the old man simply, "I pick up more'n
youse'd t'ink. But dat ain't nothin' to do wid it. Dere was
always a few dollars for Connie w'en he was on his uppers.
Well, youse know dey didn't have anythin' on him to hold
him for de job, an' dey let him go.”
"And he beat it, and he ain't been seen since," commented
Jimmie Dale judicially in his rôle of Smarlinghue. “And
now some one else comes along and swears too it was him at
the bank. It's open and shut now that he pulled the job
all right, and ducked with the cash. That's why they're
laughing at the police. You're wasting your time looking
for him. He's gone."
“Yes,” said Pedler Joe; "he's gone-dat's wot's de mat-
ter." He glanced furtively about him. “But he ain't gone
de way youse t’ink. I don't say now he didn't pull de job,
though I didn't t'ink so until last night; an' I was handin'
de police straight goods w'en dey was puttin' me through


80 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
down at de Chief's de afternoon dey put de nippers on Con-
nie at my place. He's gone—but he ain't gone de way youse
t'ink. Dere's somethin' else bein' pulled besides dat. Take
a look at dis!"
Jimmie Dale leaned forward. Pedler Joe had loosened his
collar. The man's neck and throat were a mass of ugly
bruises, discolored, swollen, finger-printed in angry, pur-
plish blotches.
“Good God!" muttered Jimmie Dale. “How'd you get
that?"
"It was last night”—Pedler Joe again glanced furtively
around him, as he rearranged his collar—"dey nearly bumped
me off before dey was satisfied dat I didn't know any more'n
wot I'd told de police. Dey wanted to know where de cash
was, de ten t'ousand bucks dat Connie stole. Dat's wot dey
did to me, an' dat's why I'm askin' youse if youse have seen
or heard anythin' of Connie."
Jimmie Dale's lips had tightened.
"You think,” he said slowly, “they had tried the same
game with Connie, and that's why he's—disappeared? You
mean you've doped it out that they hadn't been able to make
him talk up to last night, and that they tried you then on a
chance?"
The old man nodded.
"Sure, dey got him," he said miserably. “Dey got him
cold. Dat's wot makes me t'ink now dat Connie pulled de
job all right, 'cause dey're wise to him.”
“Yes," said Jimmie Dale; “but who was it that laid you
out?"
“I ain't dead sure," said Pedler Joe. “I woke up last night
in bed wid a pair of hands around my t'roat, chokin' me. It
was pretty dark in the room. Dere was two of 'em, an' I
wasn't sure, an' I ain't sure now, but I thought one of 'em,
the little fellow, was Bunty Myers, who used to travel wid
Gentleman Laroque's gang."
Gentleman Laroque! The Phantom! Jimmie Dale was
fumbling aimlessly with the brim of his battered old felt
hat. Mother Margot, Hip Foo's, the Phantom—and Connie


THE MESSAGE
81
heard any Dale helde os he said.ced about h
Pfeffer, alias the Mole! Was this what was at the bottom
of the Tocsin's note ? Intuitively he was instantly sure of it.
It dovetailed perfectly. The Phantom was not likely to be
playing two games to-night, therefore
Pedler Joe was whispering hoarsely again:
"Youse're on de level, Smarly, an' on de inside every-
where. I—I thought mabbe youse'd help me. An' if youse
heard anythin' or saw anythin' youse'd tip me off.”
Jimmie Dale held out his hand.
“Sure, I will, Joe!” he said. He leaned closer to the
other. “You keep your map closed about having spoken to
me—see? I know Bunty Myers. I'll do my best for you."
“Tanks, Smarly,” said the old man gratefully. "I knew
youse would.”
"Sure!” said Jimmie Dale again. “Well, that goes—and
so-long, Joe."
He turned and slouched on again down the street. His
face was impassive, but his hands in his pockets were
clenched now. So the Phantom's hand was in this, too, was
it? And the old broken figure with the tray of collar but-
tons slung around his neck was one of the victims! It
brought the hot anger surging upon him. There was some-
thing that struck deep to the root of his sympathy, some-
thing pathetic in the queer, strange loyalty, the curious love
that old Pedler Joe, himself a thief by profession in the
days gone by, held for the gutter snipe that he had tried-
and failed—to bring up in the paths of virtue! The Phan-
tom! Well, perhaps, to-night, if at Hip Foo's there was-
Jimmie Dale turned the corner, and halted suddenly in a
dazed, stunned way. As at the door of Charlie Wong's back
there on the other street, a wagon was drawn up here at the
curb in front of Hip Foo's, and a little crowd was disem-
barking from the wagon and was being marshalled into fine,
but it was not a gape-wagon that stood at Hip Foo's front
door; it was a wagon of quite a very different sort-a police
van. And then in an instant, his wits at work again after
the first shock of surprise, Jimmie Dale slouched back out of


82 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
sight around the corner again. Here he broke into a run.
A raid! Hip Foo's was being raided.
Jimmie Dale ran on at top speed. His chances were just
even—that was all. There were two exits a block apart. He
could not watch both at once. Which one would Mother
Margot use? The police would not get her, nor any of those
with her. The police would gather in a few Chinese attend-
ants who would be as phlegmatic and informative as so
many cows; the police would collect a little opium-smoking
paraphernalia, and Hip Foo would be fined-but that would
be all. Before the first blue-coat crossed the threshold of
the entrance, the exodus through the sub-cellars would have
begun.
And now Jimmie Dale drew into the shadows at the mouth
of a dark and narrow lane. It was the toss of a coin. This
one or the other! Yes-here they came now, like rats run-
ning from a sinking ship. He crouched against the wall un-
noticed, or if noticed accepted as one of their own ilk, and
watched them. Man after man, woman after woman, passed
out into the street. The procession dwindled to a few be-
lated stragglers—and ceased. He waited a minute longer.
There was no one else.
Tight-lipped then, Jimmie Dale turned away. Mother
Margot had not been amongst them. He had lost the toss,
that was all. She had gone out the other way.
He walked rapidly now. There was only one thing left
to do, one way left open to him. It would not be very diffi-
cult to find Mother Margot-at her home—in those rooms
from which, on that first night, the Phantom had so mys-
teriously disappeared. He had even promised her a visit!
He smiled a little grimly. His promise so far had been
unfulfilled. Not because the Tocsin had warned him that
the place was a trap, and even Mother Margot, evidently
terror-stricken that night at Mrs. Kinsey's, had done like-
wise; but because, prior to that warning and prior to
Mother Margot's occupancy of the rooms, he had already
searched the premises and found nothing; and because, until
now, it had not seemed that there was anything to be gained
that it had not bem, Jimmie D
that first nad even pronice so far ham that


THE MESSAGE
83
by a move which might result in warning the Phantom that
he, Jimmie Dale, had been in communication with Mother
Margot.
But to-night there was no choice but to go thereunless
perhaps she had gone back to her pushcart in Thompson
Street. He would try that first, and if she were there call
her to the phone as he always did, and arrange a meeting
somewhere under conditions such that she would discover no
more of his actual identity than that of the man in the mask
whom she already knew as the Gray Seal.
He was hurrying now. Time, as measured in minutes,
might or might not be precious. He did not know. What
had taken place at Hip Foo's, whether for instance the ren-
dezvous that Mother Margot had presumably had there had
been prematurely interrupted by the raid, or what were the
details of the scheme the Phantom was hatching, he did not
know. But in any case, one thing was vital, not only to
himself but to the Tocsin, vital to all he hoped for—that the
character of Smarlinghue should not be endangered. And
this, not only because it was in itself the key that opened for
him the innermost portals of the underworld, that again and
again had alone stood between him and recognition as the
Gray Seal, but because to-night he must meet Mother Margot,
not as Smarlinghue, but in the only character that she would
recognise, and, yes—the grim smile came again-obey. And
so, first of all, must come the Sanctuary; after that,his
shoulders under the ragged coat lifted in a queer, almost
fatalistic little shrug—who knew!


- VIII –
JIMMIE DALE PAYS A VISIT
TT was Smarlinghue, the drug-wrecked artist, who, ten
minutes later, by the street entrance, inviting even the
nods of recognition from some of the loungers round
about, entered the dingy tenement and scuffled along the
musty, dark, unlighted hallway to the squalid rear room on
the ground floor—the Sanctuary; it was Jimmie Dale, in
dinner jacket, the millionaire clubman, who stealthily gained
the street again by way of the old French window, the refuse-
strewn courtyard, the board in the high fence that swung
aside at a touch, and finally the lane.
Another ten minutes, and he was sauntering nonchalantly
along a narrow crowded street, whose curbs were lined with
pushcarts, whose sidewalks were thronged with shawled
women and coatless, swarthy men, whose gutters were the
playground for almost naked children. Thompson Street
was in the heart of New York, just off West Broadway, not
far from the homes of the old-time aristocracy of Wash-
ington Square, but it was also in a foreign land !
But Mother Margot with her pushcart was not here to-
night. He had hardly expected she would be. His face was
set as he made his way back now to the Bowery, and from
there headed still deeper into the East Side. There was
nothing for it now but Mother Margot's rooms.
A few blocks farther brought him within sight of the tene-
ment that was his destination, and his pace slowed as he
passed the narrow alleyway over which the police had kept
abortive guard on the night they had pounded at Isaac
Shiftel's door inside. There was a light in the window, the
same window through which he and the Phantom, alias Isaac
84


JIMMIE DALE PAYS A VISIT 85
Shiftel, or perhaps better on that occasion, alias Gentleman
Laroque, had first had warning that the police were without.
Mother Margot, then, had presumably returned home.
He was opposite the tenement door now. He halted
abruptly, ostensibly to watch the efforts of a man across the
road who was attempting to start an old car that was back-
firing viciously, in reality to allow some near-by pedestrians
to pass by—and then suddenly Jimmie Dale had disappeared
from the street, and in another instant, in the dark, murky
hall, was standing before Mother Margot's door.
From one of the pockets in the leather girdle beneath his
outer garments, that harboured too its little blued-steel bur-
glar's kit, he took out his black silk mask and slipped it over
his face. His lips tightened a little, as his right hand closed
over the automatic in the side pocket of his dinner jacket.
Who knew! There was a light in there, it was true; but he
was not necessarily sure that it was Mother Margot-or
that Mother Margot was alone.
He knocked upon the door. There was no answer. He
knocked again. This time there came the sound of a shuf-
fling footstep crossing the floor within, and then the door
was cautiously opened, and Mother Margot, holding a candle
above her head, peered out into the hallway.
"My Gawd—youse!” she whispered hoarsely. “Wot're
youse doin' here?”
Jimmie Dale smiled beneath his mask.
“Have you forgotten, Mother Margot?” he said softly. "I
promised you a visit, you know."
He stepped forward, but she blocked his way at the
threshold.
“Go away! Go away from here !” she breathed wildly.
"I don't see why I should—just yet,” said Jimmie Dale
quietly. “And wouldn't it be better if we had our interview
inside instead of out here? It wouldn't be quite so public.”
"No!” she said frantically. She kept glancing behind her,
over her shoulder in a terrified way. “Aw, go away! For
the love of Gawd, go away before we'se gets caught!”
"Who's in there, then ?" demanded Jimmie Dale sharply.


86 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
"No one!" she answered. “Dere ain't no one dere-at
least I don't know whether dere is or not."
Jimmie Dale stared at the old hag for a moment specula-
tively.
"You don't know!" He injected a caustic note into his
voice. “What do you mean by that?"
"Didn't I tell youse de other night!" She was still whis-
pering hoarsely. “Didn't I tell youse wot dey said—dat dey
was figurin' on youse comin' here sometime. Dat's wot I
means. I ain't never seen no one in here but me, but some-
times I'm scared. Sometimes I'm sure some one is watchin'
me-an'-an' I can't see no one. Don't youse see I'm playin'
straight wid youse. If I wasn't, I'd let youse in, an'-aw,
my Gawd, get away from here! If I'm caught tippin' youse
off dey'd put a knife into me, dat's wot dey'd do!”
“We'll be less likely to be seen or caught without that
light, then,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. He leaned forward
suddenly, caught her arm, and blew the candle out. “Now,
don't move!” He was past her in an instant, and with quick,
silent tread, his step as noiseless as though he possessed the
padded paws of a cat, he made the circuit of the two rooms.
And then he was back again beside her at the threshold. The
rooms, so far as any outward and visible evidence of human
presence was concerned, were empty. Nevertheless, he drew
Mother Margot out into the dark hallway now, and closed
the door silently behind them.
“Wot is it?" she faltered. “Wot is it youse wants ?”
"A little information-perhaps a little more than informa-
tion,” said Jimmie Dale evenly. "You said something a
minute ago about playing straight with me. I'm not so sure
about you, Mother Margot. That's why I'm here. I tele-
phoned you this morning, and you swore you had not heard
from the Voice since that night at Mrs. Kinsey's."
"It was de truth,” she said quickly.
“I'm so glad you always tell the truth,” he said tersely,
“because then, of course, you'll tell me now all about Hip
Foo's to-night."
She drew in her breath sharply.


JIMMIE DALE PAYS A VISIT
87
"My Gawd!” she stammered. “Youse-youse knows
about dat?”
"Go on, Mother Margot !" Jimmie Dale prompted curtly.
"Dere-dere ain't nothin' to tell.” She was obviously
groping for inspiration. “De bulls raided de place almost
as soon as I got dere, an' I beat it on de jump for home.”
"Don't lie !” snapped Jimmie Dale sternly. “There is a
good deal to tell! Shall I help your memory?” He was
quite sure of his ground. Pedler Joe's story made the
Phantom's and Bunty Myers' connection with the night's
work a practical certainty. “Don't you think Bunty Myers,
and Connie Pfeffer's ten thousand is worth telling about
Mother Margot ?"
The shot went home. The old hag shrank back against
the wall. He heard her mumbling incoherently.
"I'm waiting !” said Jimmie Dale coldly.
"I–I can't!" she burst out. "I—I daresn't!"
"I think you can,” Jimmie Dale answered sharply. "And
I am sure that it will be much the safer thing for you to do.
As a last resort, for instance, if you forced my hand, the
police might be very much interested to learn that Mother
Margot knew something about the Levenson Bank robbery,
and "
"I—I'll tell youse!" she broke in. “My Gawd, wot can I
do? Wot else can I do? I-I'll come across. W'en youse
telephoned me to-day I hadn't heard nothin'. It was only
about six o'clock dat de Voice told me to take de message
over to Hip Foo's, an' be dere by half past eight. See?
Dere wasn't no way I could tell youse, was dere? I ain't
de only one dat don't know where de Gray Seal lives, am I?”
"No," said Jimmie Dale evenly; "and we'll dispense with
any discussion as to what you would have done if you had
known. Go on!”
"It was to meet Bunty Myers an' another of Gentleman
Laroque's gang named Muller.” Mother Margot's whisper
was scarcely audible. “An'-an' it was about Connie Pfef-
fer, all right. I was to tell 'em dat Connie had seen de error


88 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
of his ways an’ opened up, an' dat de coin was in de house
wid de broken stairs, an' shoved in under one of dem.”
She paused, and in the semi-darkness Jimmie Dale could
see her jerking her head in a queer birdlike way furtively
about her.
“What's its other name?” demanded Jimmie Dale shortly.
She looked at him puzzled.
“De other name of wot?".
“The house with the broken stairs." Jimmie Dale's tones
were uncompromising.
"Why, it's Pedler Joe's, of course!" she answered. “Youse
knows where dat is. Everybody does."
Pedler Joe! For a moment Jimmie Dale stared at her.
Was Pedler Joe, too, playing a gan.e? The figure of the
old man, full of misery from what seemed genuine distress
and fear, rose before him. But against this was Pedler Joe's
record. Was this the way he had brought up his young
protégé—to play in with him hand and glove? And yet those
bruises on the man's neck and throat-they were genuine
enough.
Again Jimmie Dale lunged in the dark, and won.
"Pedler Joe had nothing to do with it!” he snapped.
"Don't try any holding out on me, Mother Margot!”
“I ain't holdin' out nothin' on youse," she protested. “I
didn't say Pedler Joe was in it. Connie beat it for Joe's
after pullin' de robbery at de bank dat day, so's to work up
an alibi—see? But de bulls pinched him quicker'n he fig-
ured. He hears dem comin' while he's dere-see?-an' w'en
Pedler Joe ain't lookin' he shoves de envelope wid de cash in
under one of de broken stairs, an’ w’en de bulls bust in dey
don't find nothin', an' dey ain't got nothin' on Connie, an'
after puttin' him through for a few hours down at head-
quarters dey has to let him go.”
Jimmie Dale nodded.
"Exactly!” he said tersely. "And the reason he didn't
go back for the money was because he never got a chance.
Your gang got him, and started in to apply less humane but


JIMMIE DALE PAYS A VISIT
89
evidently more effective measures to make him talk than the
police did.”
Mother Margot drew in her breath.
“I guess youse knows de whole lay. My Gawd, youse
ain't human, are youse?”
“There's Hip Foo's,” suggested Jimmie Dale grimly.
"Yes," she mumbled. “But dere ain't nothin' much to dat
now youse knows de rest. I had just give 'em de message
w’en de bulls started de raid, an' we beat it. Dey're to go
down dere after Pedler Joe gets to sleep, an' pinch de dough
-dat's all.”
“Not quite !” said Jimmie Dale. “There's Connie Pfeffer.
Did they go the limit with him? Is he dead?”
Mother Margot shook her head.
“No, he ain't-not quite. He'll be all right after a while,
but I guess he just come through wid de dope in time. Him
an' one of Laroque's men, dat's supposed to be a man-nurse
in charge of an invalid-see?-is on deir way west for some-
where now. Dat gets Connie outer here so's he don't get
a chance to butt in an' spill anythin' to Pedler Joe or some
other pal dat'd help him out, an' besides it's a kind of a stake
dey're givin' him so's de bulls won't bother him no more."
Again Jimmie Dale was silent for a moment. It was
clear-cut, wasn't it, the work that was ahead now? There
was no choice, was there? There was only one thing to do.
He could not go to a telephone, say, and tip the police off to
the hiding place of the money; for the fact that it would
be found in Pedler Joe's would convict Pedler Joe as ar
accomplice. The man, innocent though he was, would not
have a chance. His known intimacy with the Mole, and the
fact that Connie Pfeffer had been found there shortly after
the robbery, both of which reasons had already resulted in
a grilling for the old man from the authorities, and above all
Pedler Joe's own record would
“All right!” said Jimmie Dale abruptly. "Let's go!"
“Go!" Mother Margot crouched back against the wall.
“Go where?"
"To Pedler Joe's,” said Jimmie Dale curtly.


90 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
"Me!” She flung out her arms wildly. “Me-go dere!
Aw, my Gawd, not dat! If dey caught me dey'd-dey'd
croak me. I don't dare! My Gawd, I don't dare! Dey'd
kill me. I've told youse all I knows. Youse ain't got no use
for me dere."
"Oh, yes, I think I have,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “I'd
feel a little more comfortable if I knew where Mother Mar-
got was and what she was doing during the next half hour.”
"But—but youse can trust me," she faltered.
“Possibly!” admitted Jimmie Dale evenly. “But not to the
extent of staking my life on it. It would be rather awkward
for me if you communicated with the Voice, say, while I
was- "
"No, no; I swear I won't!" she whispered frantically.
"Aw, for Gawd's sake, don't make me do dat! If dey sees
me, if dey catches me dey'll know I snitched, an' dey'll twist
me t'roat or put a knife into me.”
It was quite true. If caught under any such circum-
stances Mother Margot's life would not be worth a moment's
purchase. But then Mother Margot would not be caught.
Bunty Myers and whoever was to accompany him were not
to go there until late to-night, not until they would expect
Pedler Joe to be in bed and asleep; and at the present mo-
ment Pedler Joe was out roaming miserably about the streets
in his hopeless search. The place would be empty. There
would be no risk for Mother Margot-and he, Jimmie Dale,
was certainly by no means sure enough of her to leave her
free to communicate with her confederates and trap him
like a rat if she chose to do so.
“They won't catch you.” His tones were peremptory now.
"You go ahead. I'll follow—where I can keep my eye on
you. I can't very well walk through the streets with a mask
on my face, and I would a little rather prefer, Mother Mar-
got, that all you saw was—a mask. And, besides, it might
be just as well for your sake that you should not be seen in
company with any one. You say you know Pedler Joe's
place. Well, so do I. When you turn into the wagon drive
I'll join you. Now then!"


JIMMIE DALE PAYS A VISIT
91
Again she shrank back.
"No, no!" she pleaded. "I—I'm scared. Youse don't
know wot youse're doin'. Youse're goin' to get me killed,
dat's wot it means.”
“I don't want to make any noise that might be heard back
there in your room by the unseen watcher that you appear
to be so much afraid of," he said coldly ; “but you are either
going with me, or it is going to be a showdown right here,
Mother Margot. You understand ?" He caught her by the
arm, and pushed her toward the front door. “Now go!"
She moved forward along the hall. He could see her
wringing her hands.
“My Gawd!" she whispered; and again : “My Gawd!”


- IX-
THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN STAIRS
W. Then the streng pace
N OTHER MARGOT passed out through the door.
Jimmie Dale, a few paces behind, removed his
mask as he stepped out to the sidewalk. He crossed
instantly to the other side of the road, and, keeping pace with
her, followed her as she shuffled down the street.
He was smiling grimly now. The Phantom apparently
was becoming cautious—in a personal sense. As Gentleman
Laroque, as Isaac Shiftel, as Limpy Mack, the man had but
narrowly escaped; to-night, it seemed fairly obvious, he was
playing a safer game by delegating the actual work to the
members of his old gang over whom he evidently still pre-
served his authority. Jimmie Dale's smile gave place to tight,
set lips. It was a compliment in a way, and a very genuine
compliment, to him, Jimmie Dale; but if there was no Phan-
tom to-night, no chance at the man in that personal way, then,
equally, there would be no Tocsin to-night either at the end
of the quest!
He went on down the street, following the shawled figure
of the old hag. Why dwell on that? What good would it
do? What would it bring him? Some night, some time, it
would be the last night and the last time, and there would
be—the end. Meanwhile to-night, at least, he could check-
mate the Phantom's game.
His thoughts swept back to the immediate present. Some-
thing struck him for the moment as incongruous, out of
keeping, a little illogical, in view of the open brutality they
had dealt out to Pedler Joe last night when they had not
hesitated to break into the old man's house, that to-night the
Phantom had switched his tactics to those of almost exagger-
92


THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN STAIRS 93
Bowery. the next corne side of the
ated stealth. And then he shook his head. No-it was far
from illogical. He saw it now. He owed the Phantom a
compliment in return. Mentally he paid it. The man had a
sort of super cunning and cleverness cradled in his devil's
brain! Pedler Joe knew nothing ; Pedler Joe would continue
to know nothing. Connie Pfeffer's lips were sealed unless to
confess his own guilt. And so the disappearance of the
money would remain a mystery—that was all !
The shawled figure on the opposite side shuffled on. It
was not far now to Pedler Joe's. He followed her across the
Bowery, down a side street again, past the Sanctuary, and
around the next corner. Here he closed the gap between
them, crossing to her side of the street—and as she disap-
peared into the blackness of a sort of arched driveway, he
joined her.
He slipped the mask over his face again, and took her arm.
“Come on!” he whispered.
The driveway was a wretched, dirty place, once used no
doubt for a delivery wagon when the store in front had been
in its prime; now it was Pedler Joe's entrance to his domain,
which, in turn, had once been an out-house of some kind,
perhaps even the stable, or wagon shed, a miserable little
wooden shack, neglected now and in hopeless disrepair.
Jimmie Dale, still holding Mother Margot's arm, emerged
from the driveway, crossed the small yard beyond, and halted
at the door of the hovel.
It was dark here; nothing showed but the looming shadows
of the surrounding buildings. Mother Margot was whim-
pering again:
"Pedler Joe! Pedler Joe'll see me, an' den— "
“Pedler Joe is out,” said Jimmie Dale crisply. “There's no
one inside. You won't get into any trouble, Mother Margot,
unless you make it yourself. I'll see to that!"
The door was locked. From the leather girdle Jimmie
Dale selected a pick-lock. A moment, two, passed. The slim,
sensitive fingers of Jimmie Dale, that mocked at even the
intricate locks and bolts devised by modern ingenuity, were
working quickly, almost contemptuously now, at Pedler Joe's


94 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
cheap, flimsy fastening. The door swung open. Jimmie
Dale motioned Mother Margot to enter, and, following,
closed and locked the door again behind them.
For an instant he stood motionless, then his flashlight
swept the interior, lancing the blackness with its round, white
ray. The place was one of utter, poverty-stricken desola-
tion. There was but a single room, with no furniture in it
save an old table and chair ; the floor sagged and had rotted
away in places; even a window was lacking, for where one
once had been, it was now, in lieu of broken panes no doubt,
nailed up with boards.
And now the flashlight focussed and held on a flight of
stairs obliquely across from the door and on the far side
of the room. Mother Margot had called the place the house
with the broken stairs,” and it was well named! Half a
dozen of the treads at least were broken away and were little
more now than so many gaping holes; and for the rest, the
whole staircase leaned drunkenly to one side as though
scarcely able any longer to sustain its own weight, let alone
the added burden of any one desirous of reaching the floor
above.
"Whereabouts in the stairs is it?" Jimmie Dale demanded
abruptly.
Mother Margot was crouched close against the door in a
frightened attitude. She shook her head.
"I dunno," she answered. "I wish to Gawd I did, so's
we could get outer here quick. It's in one of dem holes in
de stairs. Connie said he didn't remember which one 'cause
he had to act on de jump. He heard de bulls comin', an'
Pedler Joe was upstairs, an' he said he hadn't time to figure
anythin' except to get de cash outer sight.”
"All right!” said Jimmie Dale quietly. "It doesn't much
matter. We'll begin at the beginning.”
He moved across the room, and with his flashlight began
his search under the broken stair treads. But it was not until
the fourth attempt that his hand, in under a tread up to the
elbow, encountered a sealed envelope. He drew it out
quickly, and tore the end open. Yes, here it was! He took


THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN STAIRS 95
out the money and counted it rapidly-twenty five-hundred-
dollar banknotes. It was all here—ten thousand dollars. He
thrust the money into his pocket, and laid the empty envelope
on the stair beside him.
"It's all right, Mother Margot!” he called softly. “We'll
go in a minute."
From another pocket in the leather girdle he drew out now
the thin metallic case that contained its store of diamond-
shaped, gray-paper seals, and with the tiny tweezers—that
there might be no tell-tale finger prints—lifted out one of
the seals and moistened the adhesive side with his lips. There
was Pedler Joe to be considered. Pedler Joe must not be
held accountable by the Phantom, any more than by the
police. He picked up the empty envelope and pressed the
gray seal firmly down upon it. When Bunty Myers and his
fellow thugs arrived and found the money gone, Pedler Joe
would naturally be the first one they would think of, and
their former suspicions that the old man knew more than
he pretended would be aroused again with disastrous results
for Pedler Joe. But the gray seal here on the envelope
would square Pedler Joe and settle all doubts on that score.
The Phantom, for instance, was fully-
Mother Margot's whisper cut tensely, suddenly through
the room:
"Dey're comin'! Dey're comin'! Aw, for Gawd's sake,
dey're comin', an' dere ain't no way to get out!”
In an instant Jimmie Dale was across the room beside her.
He caught her wrist fiercely.
“I told youse so !” She was crooning in a queer, low way.
“Dey'll kill me for dis!”
"Keep quiet!” breathed Jimmie Dale.
Cool, possessed, motionless, he stood there. Mother Mar-
got was right. He could hear the footsteps of three or four
men close to the door outside. There was no way out. They
were trapped, and Mother Margot-
The door rattled as it was tried. A voice in a low callous
laugh reached him through the panels:
"It's a good thing youse piped old Pedler down de line,


96 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Bunty; it's saved us wastin' de night hangin' round waitin'
for him to hit de hay!"
And then another voice, impatiently:
“Aw, get de door open! Wot's de use playin' wid de lock?
Bust it in, an' strike a light! Youse don't have to be careful
of de noise when Pedler ain't dere."
Mother Margot! There was a chance. Just one. Not for
both of them perhaps, but for Mother Margot. He owed it
to her. He had brought her here-to her death-if the
chance failed.
He leaned toward her, his lips close against her ear.
“Flatten back here against the wall. The door opens away
from you. Don't move till they make a rush, then slip
through the door behind them, and get to the street. I'll
guarantce at least that no one will follow you, and with a
little luck you won't be seen at all.”
“But youse”—a strange note had come suddenly into her
voice but youse-youse mean dat- ".
“Never mind what I mean,” said Jimmie Dale between
set teeth. “Do as I tell you, or neither of us'll get out!"
The door lock yielded with a little snap—but Jimmie Dale
was no longer there. Silent as a shadow in his movements,
he was already halfway up the stairs.
He halted here. He was still holding the envelope with
its gray seal, but instead of his flashlight his automatic now
was in his other hand.
And then for the first time Jimmie Dale made a sound-
at the moment that the door swung open. It was as though,
suddenly alarmed, he had tripped and fallen upon the rickety
stairs. There was a chorus of startled oaths, a rush of feet
across the floor in his direction, the white gleam of a flash-
light thrown upon him, the chorused shouts again-and he
turned, dropping the envelope from his hand, and as it flut-
tered downward to the floor, he dashed madly up the stairs.
Came the crash and roar of a revolver shot, the spurt of
flame, the ugly spat of a bullet as it embedded itself in the
woodwork somewhere above his head, another, and still an-
other—but Jimmie Dale did not fire in return. There was


THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN STAIRS 97
Mother Margot. They had not noticed her and she should
be gone by now, but he could not see. He dared not take
the chance of any of them running back for cover in the di-
rection of the door. Just a few seconds more, and then-
he flung himself over the topmost stair-yes, it was safe now
surely to check their rush if he could. He fired—his shot
directed high over their heads. Snarls and curses answered
him. The flashlights, more than one of them now, made al-
most daylight of the place. And suddenly a new shout
went up. Some one had picked up the envelope !
“The Gray Seal!”
A hail of lead came up the staircase—and a concerted rush
of dark, swarming figures. He could not tell how many,
three or four-but it seemed as though there were a dozen.
The window! There must be a window here. He remem-
bered that Pedler Joe had spoken of a window. Yes, there
it was just across from the stairhead. He hurled himself
toward it, flung it open, and swung out over the sill. It
could not be very high. In any case it was the only chance.
A flashlight's ray caught him now from the head of the
stairs, and was accompanied almost simultaneously by an oath
and the tongue flame of a revolver.
He let go his hold and dropped. Something, a heap of
rubbish, an uneven surface, threw him violently upon his
face as he landed, but in an instant he was on his feet again.
There was no way out of the place except across the yard
and through the archway, and he raced in that direction. He
heard a shout signalling his whereabouts from the window.
It was echoed by shouts from within.
If he could but gain the street before they poured out of
the shack in pursuit! No-here they came now! Over his
shoulder he caught a glimpse of shadowy forms behind him.
He had a start of ten yards, perhaps fifteen at the outside.
He swerved out into the street. Strange the commotion
back there had not aroused the neighbourhood! But it would
not take long to do so now if the chase remained in the
open!
"The Gray Seal! Get him! Stop him!”


98 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
And nises. ?Timmie Anoth
pound of tees straining eve this in the operist
The shouts, the pound of feet rang from behind him. But
now a queer, half choked, panting laugh came grimly from
Jimmie Dale as a dark shawled figure peered suddenly
out from a doorway and drew back again as he dashed by.
Mother Margot! Well, at least, he had kept his promise to
Mother Margot.
And now windows began to open; people to emerge from
the houses. The pound of feet, the shouts seemed to grow
even nearer. Jimmie Dale was straining every muscle now,
running like a deer. Another few minutes of this in the open
and it would be the end. Thank God, the Sanctuary was just
around the corner! If he had ever needed it in his life, he
needed it now. They might see him enter the tenement; but
by the time they had been able to search the place even cur-
sorily the Gray Seal would have vanished, and only Smar-
linghue of the underworld, the drug-wrecked peer of that
inglorious realm to which they themselves belonged, would
be found.
He turned the corner, ran on the few yards up the block
to the Sanctuary, and as he flung himself inside the tenement
door he saw them swing into the street behind him, and heard
them like a pack of bloodhounds give tongue again at sight
of their quarry. But in a second now he was along the dark
hallway and inside the Sanctuary itself, the door locked
behind him.
And now he worked with lightning speed. He could have
run on out through the French window, and by the lane
perhaps might have had a fair chance of getting away—but
almost as important as his life was the vital necessity of pro-
tecting the character of Smarlinghue from suspicion, and
the Gray Seal making straight for Smarlinghue's room and
disappearing thereby, marked an intimacy in time of stress
with Smarlinghue's habitation too significant to go unchal-
lenged. He tore off his evening clothes, wrenched open the
movable section of the baseboard, brought out the seedy,
tattered garments of Smarlinghue, and put them on.
He needed no light-only a few more precious seconds.
They were stumbling around outside in the hall now; and


THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN STAIRS 99
facial solu cold brand. His maskace came away Wood. His
now he could hear them break into one of the other rooms.
Just a few more seconds—that was all he needed. There
were still the little pieces of wax that distorted lips and nos-
trils, that gave a peculiar set to cheeks and ears; still the
facial solution to give the gaunt, pallor-like effect that Smar-
linghue- Cold beads of sweat stood out suddenly on
Jimmie Dale's forehead. His mask as he pulled it off was
sticky; his hand as he put it to his face came away wet. No,
there was no need for light. He knew! It was blood. His
face had been bruised and cut when he had fallen from the
window. No make-up, no clothes, no “Smarlinghue" would
explain that!
They were coming to his door now, weren't they? His
wits—if he had ever possessed any! A chance for his life-
and Smarlinghue's! The wax went into the nostrils, under
the lips, behind the ears, inside the cheeks—there was no
need for pallor on blood-stained skin-and the mask was over
his face again.
A footstep was almost at the door.
And then, not Jimmie Dale, but Smarlinghue spoke.
“Help! Help!” he cried in a strange, gurgling, strangled
voice. "Help! Let me alone! Help!”
He loosened the catch on the inside of the French window,
but without opening the window itself; then, seizing a chair,
he hurled it over his head in the direction of the easels and
canvases that stood against the far wall. There was an an-
swering crash. He scuffled with his feet, as he flung the
evening clothes he had just taken off-saving out only his
hat, which he put on-into the hiding place, and put back
the movable section of the baseboard again. Another in-
stant, and he had sent the table in the centre of the room
hurtling to the floor, and had sprung-silently now—to the
door.
They were pounding upon it, flinging themselves against it
in an effort to break it in. In the darkness of the hall they
would not be able to distinguish clothes. If they followed
him, then, with luck, he might still save both himself and
Smarlinghue; if they didn't, then-well, it was the end.


THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN STAIRS 101
kept quiet we'd have had him cornered cold. He's got away
now down the lane." He lowered his voice. “Wot I come
back for was to find out if youse'd got a better look at him
dan some of de boys wid me on account of his mask, an' if
youse'd know him again if youse saw him?”.
Jimmie Dale shook his head.
“No, I didn't get no look at him," he said viciously. “But
I'll have the police on him, and "
“De police ?" Bunty Myers' laugh was forced, unmirthful.
"De police'll be a long time findin' dat bird, youse can take
it from me! Say, youse give me de pip, Smarly! Dat was
de Gray Seal!"
Jimmie Dale's jaw dropped. He stared helplessly.
“My God!" gasped Jimmie Dale. “The Gray Seal!
Him!"
And he was still staring in a dazed and helpless way
about him as Bunty Myers swung hurriedly from the room
again, presumably to join his companions in their search
along the lane.


-X-
BEGGAR PETE
THE street lights showed mistily, like vague, filmy
patches in the darkness. It was raining in torrents,
pitilessly. The water dripped from the brim of
Smarlinghue's old felt hat, and beating into his face soaked
the bandage around his cheek, threatening to displace it. He
smiled grimly in reminiscence, as he raised his hand and
tightened the dressing a little in its place.
It was four nights ago now since his accident when he
had made his escape from Pedler Joe's window, and subse-
quently had saved himself by playing the dual rôle in the
imaginary fight he had staged between Smarlinghue and the
Gray Seal in the Sanctuary; and since then the character of
Smarlinghue had virtually been a little Old Man of the Sea
that had clung with almost sinister tenacity to him, and that
he had not been able to shake off and discard as before at
will. It was strange! A queer trick of fate, perhaps; and
not an over-kindly one, for it had tied his hands, and for
the moment had left him seriously crippled in his efforts to
pick up the clues, already found and lost so many times,
that must eventually, if there were ever to be life and free-
dom for the Tocsin, happiness for himself and the woman
that he loved, lead to-the Phantom.
Jimmie Dale's face grew hard, anxious, perturbed. Things
had not gone well in those four days. Smarlinghue, if such
a thing were possible when his life itself had been the stake,
had played his part too well that night in the Sanctuary !
Already one of the acknowledged aristocracy of the under-
world, he had been suddenly elevated to the status of little
less than demi-god. Smarlinghue had been in actual, physi-
102


BEGGAR PETE
103
cal combat with the Gray Seal! Smarlinghue had become
the idol of a morbid awe and curiosity! It was subsiding
now, but while it lasted it had made the “disappearance” of
Smarlinghue, even for a few hours, far too dangerous a
move to consider; he had been too much the attraction, too
much on exhibition, as it were. But even if this had not been
so, there was still another and perhaps even stronger reason
that had temporarily chained him to the role of the drug-
wrecked artist and to the environment of the Sanctuary.
The underworld had eyes and ears, and so too had the
police; while, still more to be feared as one who seemed to
reach out with cunning versatility into so many different
spheres, as one who, of all others, would have his suspicions
the most quickly aroused, there was the Phantom. Jimmie
Dale, if he had returned to his ordinary life, would have had
to do so with a bandaged face curiously like Smarlinghue's!
It invited far too much! And so he had telephoned to
Jason, that peer of butlers, that he had been called out of
town for a few days; and whatever personal fears the old
man might have entertained for the safety of his young
master, whom, as he was wont to say, he had dandled on
his knee as a child, Jason could be trusted to account, both
ingeniously and to the entire satisfaction of any one inter-
ested, for the temporary absence of Jimmie Dale from his
usual haunts.
In a personal sense, therefore, there had been no serious
cause for anxiety; but in those four days it seemed, some-
how, as though a wall, impenetrable, thick, had been reared
across his path, halting him, and shutting out from both sight
and hearing those things that concerned him far more than
the consideration of his own security. There had been no
word from the Tocsin, no note, no sign, no straw of evidence
out of the whispered confidences in the hidden places of the
underworld that he could grasp at as indicative of even her
continued existence. The old question gnawed at his heart.
Was she still alive to-night? What move had the Phantom
made in those four days, and if any, had the man with his
hell-born cunning been at last successful?


BEGGAR PETE
105
was also not without its measure of satisfaction, and this in
itself alone was worth knowing. It might very well, and
probably did, augur that the Phantom too was for the
moment inactive, that there was a momentary stagnation, as
it were, in that master crook's field of endeavour, and
Jimmie Dale stopped short. He was opposite the swing-
ing doors of a saloon, run by one Gypsy Dan, from which
there emanated a stentorian-lunged voice high-pitched in
song, accompanied by the thumping of many fists evidently
upon the bar, and the stamping of many feet obviously upon
the floor. Subconsciously, he was now aware, he had heard
the row half a block away. It was not by any means a select
and exclusive neighbourhood; it was one more of squalor than
anything else and accustomed to disturbances more strenu-
ous and decidedly more vicious than this, but it was at least
within the purlieus of the city and supposedly under the
domination of law and order. And now from the opposite
corner ahead he caught the ray of a street lamp glinting on
the rubber-cloaked shoulders of an officer, as the man crossed
the street and headed for the saloon.
Jimmie Dale, as Smarlinghue, smiled thinly. Whoever
they were in there, they were friends of Smarlinghue, the
riff-raff, the rank and file of the citizenry of that sordid
fatherland of the underworld in which he held so high a
station! The character of Gypsy Dan's saloon guaranteed
that. He turned quickly, pushed the swinging doors open,
and stepped to the side of the ragged, unkempt figure at the
bar who was yelling at the top of his voice.
"Forget it!” said Smarlinghue roughly. “There's a
harness bull on the move out there.”
The man, too immersed in his vocal efforts and the liquor
he had imbibed, paid no attention; but the barkeeper was
alert in an instant.
"Tanks, Smarly!” he grunted. He leaned across the bar
and clapped his hand over the singer's mouth, effectually
shutting off the flow of song. "Close yer face!” he ordered
peremptorily. “Dat'll be Riley out dere, an' he's all to de


106 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
always apt and He knew the rage east Side knew thed jobs
good if youse'll give him half a chance. D'ye hear? Dat
goes for de whole of youse !"
The half dozen loungers around the bar subsided. Com-
parative silence reigned for a moment, then a slow, measured
step sounded outside, a night-stick rattled softly on the
swinging doors, as though both in warning and in acknowl-
edgment that the amenities had been observed, and the step
died away.
“Tanks, Smarly!” said the barkeeper again, as he once
more leaned back against the far side of the bar.
The erstwhile singer blinked.
“Have a drink,” he invited cordially; and digging into his
pocket, he produced a fistful of bills which he waved with a
lordly, inebriated air about him.
Jimmie Dale stared. A moniker in the Bad Lands was
always apt and incisive, and it had been particularly so in
this instance. He knew the ragged, down-at-the-heels va-
grant, as everybody else in the East Side knew the man.
Beggar Pete! The man was known at times to do odd jobs
perhaps if pushed to extremity for food and particularly for
drink, but otherwise he lived a miserable, poverty-stricken
existence-not criminal, perhaps, just a drifter, lost to all
sense of responsibility and self-respect.
“Hello!” said Jimmie Dale, half seriously, half facetiously.
"Who stuck you in his will, Pete?"
Some one at the bar guffawed.
“A nice old geezer wid gold spectacles dat Pete croaked
wid a black-jack," said the man. "Dere wasn't no one else
to inherit wot was in de stiff's pocket!"
Beggar Pete swung suddenly upon the speaker.
“Dat's a damn lie!” he shouted furiously. “Youse t'inks
youse're funny, don't youse? Well, mabbe youse won't
laugh so loud wid a bust face—see?"
Jimmie Dale edged in between the two men. Beggar Pete
was huge-framed and, in spite of dissipation, muscular, and
his face, working with rage, was indicative of a row that
would bring more than Riley rapping softly in admonition
with his night-stick on the swinging doors.


BEGGAR PETE
107
“Sure, I'll have a drink,” said Jimmie Dale, diplomatically.
He nodded to the barkeeper. "Suds for mine!" Then to
Beggar Pete: "Here's how, Pete!"
Beggar Pete's scowl gradually subsided.
“Youse're all right, Smarly!” he said. He grew suddenly
confidential. “Say, it came my way all right, an' 'twasn't
more'n half an hour ago, neither. I'll tell youse. I was
walkin' along an' broke for fair, an' an old gent goes brushin'
by in a hurry in de rain. De Mouser t’inks he's funny, but
de old geezer did have gold spectacles 'cause just after he
gets by me he stops an' reaches into his pocket for a box of
matches, an' I sees his face under de umbrella as he lights
his cigar. Den he goes on again, an' as he puts de box of
matches back in his pocket I sees somet'ing drop out on de
sidewalk. I slips along an' grabs it up.” Beggar Pete licked
his lips, and scowled again at the little crowd. “It's his
purse, dat's wot it is, an' a fat one. I ain't no saint, an'
jest den I tought me luck was out, 'cause I t'ought he looked
'round an' saw me pickin' it up, so I runs after him an' hands
it back. Say, he slips me wot I t'ought was one buck, an'
wot I guess he t'ought was only one too, but w’en I gets
into Kelly's place dat was near dere an' had a snifter it took
all de money in de cash register to make change-see? Fifty,
dat's wot it was a fifty-dollar bill.”
"Well, den," suggested one of the crowd to whom the
story had evidently been retailed before, “set 'em up again,
Pete-youse must be dry talkin' about it.”
Jimmie Dale, included in the invitation which Beggar Pete
promptly accorded, shook his head and left the place.
He smiled a little curiously to himself as he went on again
through the rain. It was an incident, that was all; an inci-
dent that could have no bearing on him in a personal way,
that could carry with it no significance so far as he was con-
cerned, save that it was one of the many little cross-sections
of life, queer, bizarre, a scratch under the surface of things,
here in the Bad Lands. Yet, naturally enough, it remained
uppermost in his thoughts for a few moments as he walked
along.


108 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
He knew Beggar Pete, and he was not at all convinced
by Beggar Pete's story. Benevolent, gold-spectacled gentle-
men were not in the habit of handing out fifty-dollar bills-
even on a dark and rainy night! There would always be a
street lamp within a few paces under whose light the award
could be made without any mistake on the donor's part. A
five-dollar bill for the service Beggar Pete had rendered
yes; a fifty-dollar bill—no. He found himself growing
more and more skeptical. Indeed, he was not sure, for in-
stance, that the gibe the lounger at the bar had Aung at
Beggar Pete had not more nearly hit the truth, to the extent
at least that Beggar Pete had come by the money by methods
that would not stand any very close scrutiny.
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. One thing at least
seemed certain. Beggar Pete would sooner or later come
to grief, and perhaps the sooner the better. There were too
many Beggar Petes who had drifted on the reefs to become
broken hulks, worthless to themselves and a menace to
others!
He drew his coat collar closer around his throat. What a
beastly night! Head down against the storm, he ploughed
along. Thank Heaven, he was not far from Kerrigan's
now—just around the next corner. For all it's evil-smelling,
reeking atmosphere, where about the only air there was stole
in like a sneak thief through the broken window pane that
was covered with cardboard, there would be even physical
comfort to-night in the company of Bunty Myers and his
fellow gangsters in that upstairs back room! There would
even be a sort of compensation in the fact that he was under
cover and in shelter should the real object of his visit, as it
probably would, prove as futile to-night as it had in the past.
His face hardened suddenly. What was the matter with
him? Was he growing childish, his thoughts feeble-minded
and astray? Shelter! A bit of a rain storm! Where was
the Tocsin to-night? Where was she? What was sheltering
her from a storm, not of pattering rain drops, but from one
where every moment her life itself stood in peril, where
her-


BEGGAR PETE
109
he
t, but stranger, a man storm to disither pedestria the murk,
He raised his head. Along the street, through the murk,
he noticed a shadowy form, the only other pedestrian in sight.
It was too far off in the storm to distinguish even whether it
was a woman, or a man wearing what might be a long rain-
coat, but strangely enough, unaccountably enough, yet never-
theless existent in his mind was the consciousness of some-
thing familiar about the figure. And then, almost the next
moment, his impression was verified in a measure that
brought every faculty, alert and tense now, into instant action.
The figure was turning the corner, passing under the street
lamp. It was Mother Margot !
He did not quicken his pace. He was Smarlinghue! His
lips tightened grimly. Mother Margot owed the man she
knew as the Gray Seal her life, but how far her gratitude
extended he did not know-perhaps not at all in view of the
fact that her life would not have been in jeopardy if the
Gray Seal had not literally forced her into the situation that
had so nearly proved fatal to her that night at Pedler Joe's !
In any case, it would be trusting her very far, too far, farther
than he would ever dream of doing, if he risked the conse-
quences of handing himself over utterly to her mercy in
allowing even a suspicion to arise in her mind that the Gray
Seal and Smarlinghue were one! A word of that, a hint,
and Smarlinghue, the idol now of the underworld, would
know instead a hatred and a vengeance that would not only
bring exposure and disgrace to the name of Jimmie Dale, not
only play into the Phantom's hands and leave the Tocsin to
stand alone, as prompted by that brave, unselfish love of hers
she sought to do, but would cost him his life as well. And
so, as Smarlinghue, though that was Mother Margot there,
he could make no move to intercept her.
But in a moment more he reached the corner. Mother
Margot had disappeared. He nodded his head. She had
gone in through Wally Kerrigan's side entrance, her objec-
tive beyond question of doubt that upstairs room at the
back.
Jimmie Dale moved swiftly now. At last, then, there was
something afoot again. Mother Margot was the mouthpiece


110 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
of the "Voice," as she called the Phantom. For a moment
he experienced a sense of chagrin that he should have lost
those few minutes in Gypsy Dan's saloon, for otherwise he
would have been upstairs with Bunty Myers and the rest
on Mother Margot's arrival, and Smarlinghue would have
been introduced to Mother Margot, and - He shook his
head again. No! He had lost nothing. His intimacy had
not quite reached the point where they would talk
before him. They would more likely have kicked him out.
It was much better as it was; better that Smarlinghue should
not have been in evidence at all if the aftermath of this visit
of Mother Margot meant anything that would bring him
into any game that might be played to-night.
And now he smiled with grim whimsicality as his thought
of shelter came back to him. Instead of the back room up-
stairs, if he was to have any part in the proceedings what-
ever, he was much more likely to be a silent and unobtrusive
occupant of the fire escape outside the window, than which
he could imagine no place less sheltered or more uncom-
fortable in New York that night!
The door of Wally Kerrigan's side entrance closed silently
behind Jimmie Dale. It was utterly dark here. The clien-
tele that favored Kerrigan with its patronage, in so far as
this portion of his premises was concerned, made no demand
for any such extravagance as light! A footstep sounded from
above, a woman's footstep; it died away, and a door closed.
Mother Margot had run true to form!
Jimmie Dale moved forward as a shadow moves, and
began to mount the narrow stairway with which he was
already so well acquainted. There was no sound. It was
the silence learned in the days of the old Sanctuary on the
creaky, rickety stairs there, where an untrained step would
have sounded the alarm from top to bottom of the tenement.
He gained the landing. There were three or four rooms
here, he knew, but save for a tiny thread of light that seeped
out under the threshold of the rear room, which was the
rendezvous of Laroque's gang, everything was in darkness.
It was early yet, which might be one reason, and the stormy


BEGGAR PETE
111
night another, why the other rooms were as yet evidently
unoccupied.
And now he was crouching against the door itself, his ear
pressed against the panel. It was a possibility, that was
all-a possible alternative to the uninviting fire escape.
Again he shook his head, then turned swiftly to the window
almost at his elbow that gave on the rear of the little hall.
He had caught the sound of movement through the panels,
even the sound of voices, but the words had been hopelessly
indistinguishable.
Cautiously he opened the window, slipped out on the fire
escape, and, against the possibility of any of the occupants
of the room stepping out into the hall to notice an opened
window, he closed it again behind him. Another moment,
and, flat on his face, he had crept along the iron platform
until he lay beneath the window of the rear room. He would
be able to hear now. He had taken no changes on that
score. Open or closed, the window above him with its
square of cardboard tacked over the broken pane could hardly
be improved upon for his purpose. And now, keeping a
little back from the wall, he raised himself up and peered in.
Mother Margot was talking excitedly, gesticulating with
her hands, while gathered around her at the table were
Muller, Bunty Myers, and two men he had met there be-
fore, who, leaving aside a score of aliases, were known as
the Kitten and Spud MacGuire.
A pretty quartette! Jimmie Dale's lips thinned, as, the
sense of sight gratified, he shifted his position, placing his
ear as close to the edge of the window casing as he dared
without exposing himself to the risk of being seen. Yes,
he could hear now, but-a dismayed frown furrowed his
forehead-Mother Margot appeared already to have im-
parted whatever information had brought her there.
"... Youse understand, don't youse?” she was saying.
“ 'Cause if youse have got it straight, I'm goin' to beat it
outer dis, an' get home an' get dry.”
"It kinder took de wind outer us, dat's all !" Bunty Myers'


112 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
voice responded in a puzzled growl. “I t'ought de whole
works was blown up an' we was done !"
"I told youse once," snapped Mother Margot. “It's de
panel in de wall.”
"Sure!" said Bunty Myers. “We ain't deef, an' we got
dat, all right-de middle one at de back of de room. But,
den, wot's de use of waitin'?” He broke into a coarse, un-
pleasant laugh. "I guess old Miser Scroff ain't at home to
queer anythin'!"
"De use of waitin'," returned Mother Margot tartly, "is
'cause de Chief says so, an' 'cause some of youse pulled a
bum play dat he's got to make good, an' I wouldn't like to be
de one dat done it 'cause de Chief is seein' red. Anyway,
don't youse make no mistakes again. Youse ain't to make a
move until as near ten as'll give youse time to get away wid
it, but youse're to be through by den, 'cause at ten de bulls
get tipped off.”
"All right," agreed Bunty Myers. And then abruptly,
as Mother Margot evidently started to leave the room: “Say,
wait a minute, mother! Mabbe youse have got de answer
to somethin' we’se can't figure out. Wot's de big idea be-
hind de Chief's keepin' under cover? We ain't seen him for
weeks—nothin' but telephones an' messages. Where is he?”
"Why don't youse ask him?" suggested Mother Margot
acidly.
“Ask him!" echoed Bunty Myers helplessly. "How de
hell can I, w'en I don't know where— "
"Dat’s de answer!” Mother Margot's interruption was a
cackling laugh. "Youse knows all I knows. Do youse t'ink
me an' de Chief goes to a picture show every evenin', an' den
spends de rest of de night together eatin' hot frankfurters
an' stewed ice cream? Say, youse give me a pain! Good-
night!”
The door in the hall closed.
For an instant Jimmie Dale stood motionless, then he
turned, and, in lieu of an exit via the hall window, began to
make his way down the fire escape. And now what? Go to
Mother Margot as the Gray Seal and force a detailed ex-


BEGGAR PETE
113
planation from her as he had the other night? He shook his
head. It wasn't necessary to-night, was it? He had learned
enough, hadn't he?
His mind was working swiftly, in a precise, virile way,
as he descended the wet, dripping iron treads. The middle
panel at the back of old Miser Scroff's room—and old Miser
Scroff was not at home. That was clear enough. And there
was no question but that Miser Scroff had money hidden
away somewhere. It was only a wonder that it had not been
taken from him before. The old man was almost senile. It
was common property on the East Side that he had been
caught fondling and crooning over packages of banknotes
in his room on more than one occasion. For more years than
any one could remember the man, already old, had just kept
on growing older in a solitary life in his sordid surroundings.
He was supposed to have a small income from some source,
but however small it might have been it was certain he saved
on it for he never spent a cent save to keep absolute famine
from his door. Undoubtedly he had money. Robbery, there-
fore, as the motive, was equally clear. And at ten o'clock,
for some reason, the police were to be notified of the crime
by the actual perpetrators themselves. Ten o'clock. It could
not be much after nine yet. There should be at least half an
hour then before Bunty Myers need be considered as a
factor. Meanwhile the Phantom was at work in an effort
to rectify some misplay made by his underlings. Was it at
Miser Scroff's that the Phantom in person would be em-
ployed prior to the arrival of Bunty Myers and his con-
federates? Was it luck like that? Luck at last! If so,
then-
Jimmie Dale dropped from the bottom of the fire escape
to the ground. And then, in the shelter of the lane where
the fire escape had landed him, he broke instantly into a run.
"Not as Smarlinghue,” confided Jimmie Dale grimly to
himself as he ran. “I can't risk Smarlinghue—it's got to be
the other way in spite of a patched face."
rectify some mal the Phantom, inty Myers and his If so,


THE PANELLED WALL
115
covering, had been ripped up and flung into a corner. Where
a hiding place might have existed before, there existed now
nothing but a pitiful state of wreckage!
Jimmie Dale's mind seemed to echo the confusion. It did
not seem possible that Bunty Myers and his companions could
already have been here. And besides—the flashlight's ray
shot suddenly to the rear of the room—what had all this to
do with the panelled wall?
An ironic smile tinged his lips now. Yes, it might by a
stretch of imagination be called panelled, but it was simply
an extra height of boarding that ran up to meet the plaster
all around the room some three or four feet from the flooring.
He stepped quickly across the room, and knelt, as nearly as
he could judge his position by the flashlight, in front of the
middle boards. He nodded grimly. These were at least
intact if nothing else in the room was! From a pocket
in the leather girdle around his waist he drew out now a
small, but incredibly strong and powerful “jimmy.” It would
have been a useless waste of time to seek for any secret
resides strong and power to see more
spring that, while it probably existed, was also certainly well
and cleverly hidden.
He was working rapidly now, the point of the “jimmy"
prying tentatively into, and up and down, the joints of the
boards. A low-breathed exclamation of satisfaction came
almost instantly from his lips. The "jimmy” had slipped
through one of the cracks into an open space behind. It was
here, then, the hiding place of old Miser Scroff's hoard that
Bunty Myers—
Jimmie Dale stood suddenly erect, tense, every muscle
rigid, listening. A footstep, low and stealthy though it was,
had caught his ear from the hall outside. It was not another
lodger, it was too cautious for that, too guarded; and for
the same reason it could not be Miser Scroff. It was not
Bunty Myers and his confederates, because there was only
one footstep. The Phantom, then! The Phantom had re-
quired time for something somewhere. And he, Jimmie Dale,
had dared to hope that it might be here. Luck! If he was in
luck at last, he would play it to the full. He was crossing


THE PANELLED WALL
117
ing to him-and it was not just for the moment, not just a
stolen, pitiful instant out of all eternity, but for always, for
all time. He had her now. She would never go again.
There was no power on earth would keep him from her side
now!
Half laughing, half crying, she struggled to free herself
a little.
“Jimmie,” she breathed, “don't you know that you are ter-
ribly strong, dear?”.
He released her a little, grudgingly, but still he held her
close. His lips found hers, her eyes, her hair—the dark
silken strands that, playing truant from under her hat, swept
this faceiand had ae gently a
Her hand had crept up and found his mask, slipped under
it, and was resting gently against the strips of plaster on his
cheek.
"I-I know of course about the night when—when you
got this,” she said brokenly. “All the underworld has been
talking about Smarlinghue. They very nearly caught you,
Jimmie. Oh, Jimmie, why will you do it? I have begged
you so, done all I could to keep you out of this. And now
to-night again! What are you doing here? What brought
you here?"
His arms tightened about her again.
“To find you," he said.
She drew away in amazement, her hands on his shoulders
now, holding him at arms’-length.
"To find me !" she echoed helplessly. “But how could you
have expected to find me here? You did not know. I sent
you no note, no word, for after I heard about that night at
Pedler Joe's and what happened later in the Sanctuary, I
nade up my mind not to-
He laid his hand softly across her lips.
"I have not been anywhere, done anything, since that night
on the East River, Marie,” he said quietly, "except with the
one end in view of finding you. And had I not found you
again now I should still have kept on in the same way. I'm
quite sure you know every move that Smarlinghue has made,


118 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
and you therefore ought to know that I have already gone
too far, that I've already been too close to the Phantom more
than once to have let anything you did keep me out of this,
Marie. The fewer the notes, the more I should have wor-
ried, and the harder I should have worked. But that's all at
an end now, thank God! There'll be no more separation.
We'll work together from now on until we've found the
Phantom.”
For a moment she did not answer, then she turned her head
away.
"No, Jimmie !” she said firmly. "I cannot! I will not!
Nothing has been changed since that night on the East River.
I cannot prevent you from doing as you have been doing,
but there is a great difference between your actions as the
Gray Seal and as one who is known to be working hand in
glove with Marie La Salle. It-it would make it almost im-
possible for me to go on, for I-I could not do anything then
without the fear of putting your life in danger. Oh, Jimmie,
you do not know, you do not understand, and—and I cannot
tell you!” She turned quickly toward him again. “Go,
Jimmie, please—at once. There is something that I must
do here."
Jimmie Dale reached out for the door.
“We'll go together, Marie—now,” he said calmly.
heard Mother Margot talking about Scroff's panel here. “I
was on the fire escape outside Kerrigan's place. That's what
you mean, isn't it? But you are what I came for, so we'll
go, for there is nothing else that counts here now against
the risk of you being caught by Bunty Myers and his crowd,
to say nothing of old Miser Scroff himself turning up any
minute to -
"Miser Scroff is dead," she interrupted dully.
"Dead !” he repeated in a startled way.
"Murdered," she said. And then her voice broke again.
“Oh, Jimmie, I have failed miserably to-night. I—I have
cost a man his life, I am afraid. The least I can do now is
to keep them from getting the money—it's in an old leather
bag behind the panel—but that I must do. You—you must


THE PANELLED WALL
119
y.
let me work this out, Jimmie. I have no choice. If you
force me out of here, or if you insist on staying to help me,
then in an hour, two hours, somehow, Jimmie, I warn you
frankly that I will get away from you again."
"I don't think you will—not this time, Marie !” said Jimmie
Dale grimly. “I've got you now, and I'm going to keep
you no matter what happens."
She smiled at him wanly.
“Very well, Jimmie, if you think so,” she said quietly.
“Only remember what I have said. Meanwhile there is the
panel. I can't go until I have got the money.”
She started across the room, only to stumble over the
broken desk. And then Jimmie Dale's flashlight was in play
again, and he followed her.
"Murdered, you said !" He spoke quickly. "Why? I
don't understand. And I don't understand what has hap-
pened here. The place has been turned inside out."
"The panel, Jimmie!” she answered. “It's near the mid-
dle. Get it open! I'll tell you while you work.”
"I had already found it before you came in,” said Jimmie
Dale coolly. He was kneeling by the wall, the “jimmy” in
his hand again. "Go on, Marie !"
A joint in the wood gave with a low, rending, creaking
sound. She stood at his shoulder, whispering swiftly:
"Some of the gang under the Phantom's orders inveigled
Miser Scroff down somewhere in the neighbourhood of that
old junk yard near Kelly's saloon, with the intention of keep-
ing him out of the way for an hour or two while the rest of
them came here and searched for his money. But Scroff
was an old man, and the blow he was hit by the black-jack
killed him; and the search here resulted in nothing.”
The "jimmy" pried away a narrow board from top to
bottom. Jimmie Dale reached in his hand. Yes, there was
something in here, a bag of some kind.
"How do you know all this?” he demanded. “And if you
know it, where was the Phantom all this time?”
“Under cover," she answered. “I told you long ago that
he was a man with a score of domiciles and a score of aliases.


120 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Lately he has been driven from one to another-and robbed
of some of them by the Gray Seal.”
"I thought so!” said Jimmie Dale swiftly. “Well, you've
lost your case, now, Marie. It would appear, then, that the
Gray Seal has been of service, so why should you attempt
to keep him at a distance ?"
Her hand found and touched his shoulder.
"It's no good, Jimmie,” she said softly. “Shall we call it
a woman's inconsistency? I cannot give you any other
answer."
Another board came loose. Jimmie Dale frowned. What
was the matter? He was not working with his usual deft-
ness and silence. It seemed as though the creaking of the
board could be heard throughout the building.
“You said you had failed miserably to-night, and that you
were afraid you had cost a man his life," he said. “You
mean Miser Scroff?”
"No," she said heavily. “I did not know anything about
to-night until after Miser Scroff was killed. That brought
the Phantom into it in a personal way. There had been no
murder intended, and failure to find anything here would
otherwise have ended the matter; but in old Miser Scroff's
pocket they found, besides some stock certificates made out
in his name, a dirty old piece of paper with a tracing of his
room upon it, and a position on the rear wall marked with an
arrow, so they knew then where the money was. But this
was after the first search had been made and the room torn
to pieces as you see it, and though they knew then where
the money was, there was a murder that had to be covered
up.”
Jimmie Dale drew out a worn yellow leather bag from the
aperture. He opened it, and uttered a sharp exclamation.
It was crammed full of loose banknotes.
"How do you know all this?” he asked for the second time,
as he shut the bag.
The Tocsin shook her head.
“It is useless to ask me, Jimmie," she said steadily. "If
I told you, I might as well enter into the partnership with


THE PANELLED WALL
121
a chance to be placed und here, the policehe 'murder
you that you are so insistent upon-it would amount to the
same thing. I cannot tell you. I can only tell you that I
know the Phantom means to plant the crime on some out-
sider's shoulders, some one he has picked out as suitable, a
seedy character who—it's horrible, Jimmie !—will not have
a chance for his life. The securities with Scroff's name on
them are to be placed under the innocent victim's mattress;
then, with the panel rifled here, the police are to be tipped
off about the murder, and where to find the ‘murderer' and
the evidence. I did my best; I did all I could, but—but I
lost the trail, and so I came here to save at least the money,
and as a sort of last hope that somehow I might pick up the
clue again. The only thing I am sure of is that the Phantom
was playing the part of an old gentleman with gold spec-
tacles to-night, and "
Jimmie Dale had taken the Tocsin's arm, and, carrying the
bag, had started back for the door; but now he halted sud-
denly as though rooted to the spot, and stared at her.
"An old gentleman with gold spectacles !” he ejaculated
sharply.
She caught at his sleeve.
"Jimmie!” she whispered tensely. "You—you know some-
thing about it! You—you've seen him! You know who it
is they mean to railroad to his death for this?"
The room, his surroundings, even the Tocsin, had fled
from Jimmie Dale's consciousness for the moment; instead,
there came again the scene in Gypsy Dan's saloon, when Beg-
gar Pete had told his story, which he, Jimmie Dale, had but
so short a time ago dismissed almost summarily from his mind
as having no personal significance for him. Beggar Pete and
the gentleman with the gold spectacles! Beggar Pete and
his sudden affluence! He had not believed Beggar Pete
then, but he believed him now. There was no shadow of
doubt but that Beggar Pete was the Phantom's intended cat's-
paw, and that the snare was the low, viciously-cunning handi-
work of the Phantom. Beggar Pete's story, once those se-
curities were found beneath his mattress, would, out of its
own improbability, only assure the man's conviction. No-


122 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
forntomlat Beggarnow he wo
sip on the Eastuse of late it had been He knew where
body knew how much or how little cash Miser Scroff had
had! So this was what the Phantom wanted that extra time
for-to plant those securities. God, if he could catch the
Phantom at Beggar Pete's! No! There was the Tocsin
here-he had her now-he would never leave her again.
And besides it was too late now. He knew where Beggar
Pete lived because of late it had been almost a source of gos-
sip on the East Side, for the simple reason that, for perhaps
the first time in his life, Beggar Pete now had a permanent
address—the cellar of a somewhat questionable lodging
house run by a yegg named Harry the Dip—and this in
return for the more than questionable agreement on Beggar
Pete's part to make himself generally useful when called upon
to do so! It was a long way to Beggar Pete's—almost across
the whole of the East Side. The Phantom would have com-
pleted his work by now, or at least long before he, Jimmie
Dale, could reach Beggar Pete's lodging, and that would-
"You know! Oh, thank God!" she cried tremulously.
“And I, I was so afraid !"
"It is Beggar Pete,” he answered mechanically.
“Then quick, Jimmie!” she pleaded. “There is not an
instant to lose. You must get those securities before the
police do!"
He did not move.
She shook frantically at his sleeve.
“You see that, don't you, Jimmie?" she cried again. "Oh,
there's not an instant, not a second to spare—and besides, the
rest of them will be here any minute.”
He looked at her.
“And you ?” he said.
"I'll take the bag of money and see that it reaches the
authorities," she replied quickly. "You can't be hampered
with that. It will be all you can do to win the race against
the police."
"No!” he said fiercely. “Let you get away out of my life
again? Not for a dozen Beggar Petes !"
A strange smile, wistful, drooped her lips; and suddenly


THE PANELLED WALL
123
his you here is no you.
her eyes were wet; and as suddenly she reached up and drew
his face to hers and kissed him.
"You are too big a man for that, Jimmie,” she whispered.
“And there is no other way, and-and, besides, you know
what I have told you. You are too big a man for that, Jim-
mie, and that—that is why I love you."
He held her close.
"It's no use!” he said hoarsely. “There's been more
planted on him than you know anything about; enough so
that the robbery here would almost cast suspicion on Beggar
Pete without the securities being found at all. He has been
spending more money in the saloons to-night than he ever
had in all his life before; and he is accounting for its pos-
session in a manner that no one would believe.”
"But there's a way out of that,” she answered quickly.
"A way that the Gray Seal has taken before. Take it again
now, Jimmie_because it's a man's way, my man's way.”
He knew what she meant, but he did not answer. She
was gathered in his arms. He could not let her go. He had
given his all to find her-he could not let her go.
"Jimmie,” she said, steadying her voice with an effort,
"every second that we stand here may mean that it has cost
a man his life.”
With a low cry that seemed wrenched from him in agony,
Jimmie Dale's hands dropped to his sides. Through the
darkness, that was now a strange mist before his eyes, he
saw her pick up the leather bag. And then her whisper came
to him:
"Thank God for you, Jimmie! I'll stand guard at the door
until you're through."
He found himself at the rear of the room again, working
with frantic speed in front of the broken panelling. He
knew what she meant; it must be his mind, of course, that
was functioning, governing him, and yet his actions seemed
purely mechanical. From the leather girdle he drew out the
thin metallic case; and from the case, with the tiny tweezers,
he lifted out a diamond-shaped, gray-paper seal. If he suc-
ceeded in getting the securities before the police did, and if


124 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
the police found here on the scene of the robbery the in-
signia of the Gray Seal that they knew so well, then Beggar
Pete, a worthless, broken hulk, would go free, and-
Her whisper, from the door now, reached him again:
"Quick, Jimmie! They're coming now. I hear them
downstairs. Quick, Jimmie, and-and-good-bye!"
It took an instant, no more, to moisten the adhesive side
of the paper seal, and stick it into place on the edge of the
broken panelling; and then Jimmy Dale was across the room,
and, the door closed behind him, was standing in the black-
ness of the hallway.
She was gone! His face was set and rigid. Perhaps she
was still somewhere here in the hall; but he could not see,
and he did not dare call out. The stealthy tread of two or
three men was distinctly audible coming up the stairs. He
drew farther back along the hall and crouched there in the
darkness. Low whisperings reached him; indistinct forms
clustered around the door of Miser Scroff's room-and then
the door opened and closed again, and the hall was empty.
Empty! Where was she? Still here still within touch
perhaps? A bitter smile curved his lips. He was beaten-
beaten by a worthless, broken hulk that had drifted on the
reefs—a human wreck!
He was crouched outside the door again, and now silently,
quickly, with the little steel pick-lock, he locked the men in-
side. If she were still in the hall here, she too would have
her chance, enough time to get away before they discovered
that gray seal in there and came pouring out of the room
again!
And then he went down the stairs, and in another instant,
the mask removed from his face, was outside the tenement,
and racing madly through the night. And as he went he
looked about him. He had hoped for a passing taxi or a
vehicle of some sort, but there was only the torrential rain.
And so he could but run. Time! It would take him all of
twenty minutes, and it must be later than twenty minutes of
ten now, and-he paused for a second under a street lamp
to consult his watch-yes, it was a quarter to ten. At ten


THE PANELLED WALL
125
the Phantom would notify the police in some anonymous
way, of course. But there was still a little leeway. Perhaps
ten minutes. The time it would take the police to get to
Beggar Pete's after ten o'clock.
He ran on and on. Still no taxis, no vehicles-only de-
serted streets. It seemed as though he had run for hours.
He did not stop to look at his watch again. He heard a
clock from somewhere boom out the hour.
Was he in time? He glanced up and down the street now,
as he halted finally before a small, tumble-down, shabby
dwelling house. He did not know. At least there was no
one in sight.
Harry the Dip's door was never locked! His lodgers kept
hours too uncertain and varied! Jimmie Dale smiled grimly,
as slipping suddenly into the shadows of the doorway, he
stepped silently inside the place. Another item, this choice of
lodging, even if it were the choice of necessity, that would
not help Beggar Pete's reputation in a jury's eyes!
The cellar entrance! Where was it? It was dark in here
-but not silent. From upstairs he could hear talking and
the sound of movement. And then his ear caught another
sound—the sound of loud, heavy, stertorous breathing that
seemed to come from a direction ahead of him. He risked
his flashlight. He was in a short and narrow hall. And
now he advanced cautiously. Yes, here it was; and here, too,
was the explanation of those laboured, stertorous sounds.
Under the stairs at the back of the hall, a door stood half
open.
The flashlight's ray played down a flight of bare, ladder-
like steps—and coincidentally Jimmie Dale's face set in
hard, bitter lines. At the bottom of the steps, a little to one
side, in a filthy cellar, sprawled on a torn and filthy mattress
from which wisps of mildewed straw protruded blatantly,
Beggar Pete lay in a drunken stupor. The man had already
been pretty well along at Gypsy Dan's, and in the hour since
then it was obvious that he had lost no time!
Jimmie Dale's hand clenched. The sight seemed to fan
a latent fury, a merciless passion into flame. It was for this,


126 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
tom had yet, mechanicover the manied the man
to save this, a vagrant, a bum, a drunken sot, a beast, that
he had lost all that was most dear to him in life to-night; it
was for this that he had done what he had never thought to
do under any circumstances, under any pressure, while life
remained to him—lose the Tocsin again if once he ever
found her! It seemed to plumb the depths of irony; it
seemed as though he could wish for nothing better than that
this besotted beast should experience exactly what the Phan-
tom had prepared for him!
And yet, mechanically, Jimmie Dale went down the cellar
stairs. He stooped over the man. There was no danger of
disturbing Beggar Pete! He pulled the man aside, and over-
turned the mattress. A little bundle of stock certificates,
held together by a rubber band, lay there. He picked them
up. They were made out in the name of Heinrich Scroff.
For an instant he stood staring from the certificates in
his hand to the sprawled form upon the floor-and slowly,
gradually, the hard, embittered look on Jimmie Dale's face
softened. Was he so sure after all that he had paid too
much? In his hand he held the death warrant of an innocent
man, a fellow creature, sunken, low, it was true, but a human
being with hopes and fears like his own perhaps, though one,
unlike himself, who had had only the rougher road to travel,
where plenty was unknown and life's sunshine meagre.
He stooped again, and replaced the mattress, and laid
Beggar Pete upon it. He was smiling now softly, as some-
times a woman smiles when her lips mirror her heart. And
somehow he was glad.
And then Jimmie Dale turned away and went out into the
storm again. To-morrow the city would awake to find that
the Gray Seal had committed another crime !


- XII
LITTLE SWEENEY
I always
unty Myersing a game, the come to t
THE air was heavy with drifting layers of smoke, as it
always was in this back, upstairs room of Wally
Kerrigan's “club,” that was the hang-out of Gentle-
man Laroque's, alias the Phantom's, gang. Four men sat at
the table playing stud, and Jimmie Dale, as Smarlinghue,
seated a little apart, watched them now as he fumbled with
the dirty, frayed sleeves and wristbands of his coat and
shirt, and, fumbling then in his pocket, drew out a hypo-
dermic syringe, its nickel-plating worn and brassy, its gen-
eral appearance as disreputable as himself.
How many nights had he come to this room, as he had come
to-night, playing a game, that was not a game of cards, with
Bunty Myers here, and the Kitten, and Muller, and Spud
MacGuire! How many nights? He had almost lost track
of time. The wound in his cheek had healed. He had even
resumed, in so far as an occasional appearance at the St.
James Club, and here and there a social function went, his
normal life as Jimmie Dale. He must have been coming
here for many nights!
Through half closed, apparently drug-drowsed eyes, he
watched the players at the table. Yes, it must have been
for many nights. It was over a week since_his fingers
tightened involuntarily in a fierce, spasmodic grip upon the
hypodermic—since that night when he had held the Tocsin
once again in his arms in old Miser Scroff's room, and had
lost her again. Since then he had continued to cultivate
these men. They were only pawns, they moved only at the
will of that unseen yet ever present spirit of evil, the Phan-
tom; but to be one of them opened the Avenue of a Thou-
127


128 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
sand Chances that might lead to the Phantom himself. He
had had no other clue to follow.
But so far nothing had come of it. They did not distrust
him—who in the underworld would distrust Smarlinghue,
who had the entrée everywhere !—but they had made no ad-
vances toward offering him full membership in that unhal-
lowed fraternity to which he knew they belonged. At times
he had believed they had been on the verge of doing so, and
that applied especially to Bunty Myers, who was the Phan-
tom's apparent chief of staff; but there had been nothing
definite, nothing concrete, nothing tangible.
And yet, even in a negative sense, the nights he had spent
here of late had not been futile. He was in possession of the
fact that there had been inactivity. And that meant that
the Phantom, whatever might be germinating in that master
mind of crime, had for the time being been quiescent; and,
as a corollary to that, the almost certain deduction that no
further blow had been struck at the Tocsin—that she was
still safe. And this had been borne out by Mother Margot,
who, so far, had always been the Phantom's mouthpiece. As
the Gray Seal, and through the hold that, as the Gray Seal,
he had upon her, he had continued to call her daily from
her pushcart to the telephone and question her. But she had
still protested vehemently each time that she had had no fur-
ther word of any move, and he was satisfied that she was
telling the truth for the simple reason that he did not believe
she would dare do anything else. But, even so, unknown
to her, he had still maintained, in so far as he could, a per-
sonal surveillance over her movements, and there had been
nothing to disprove her statements. She still tended her
pushcart in Thompson Street; she still lived in those rooms
from which the Phantom, in the dual guise of Shiftel, the
fence, and Gentleman Laroque, who once had openly led this
very gang here, had so mysteriously disappeared.
Smarlinghue's face was vapid, but into the dark eyes
behind the drooping eyelids there came a troubled gleam.
Those rooms where the Voice, as Mother Margot called the
Phantom, had installed the old hag! What was the secret
,


LITTLE SWEENEY
131
fruits of the man's criminal schemes. Where, in the past
few weeks, the Phantom had counted upon thousands, many
of them, and had even spent lavishly to pave the way to the
expected profits, he had received instead not a single penny.
The Phantom, therefore, unless he possessed the reserve
wealth of a Cresus, was certainly shy of funds. Yes, that
was it. It must be it. And as almost irrefutable evidence
of this was the fact that the Phantom, as Shiftel, was said
to be in communication again with some of those who com-
posed that carefully selected circle of crooks who had been
tried and successful business associates in the past; and that
was why, too, it was as Shiftel, and not as Limpy Mack, not
as Gentleman Laroque, or any one of his other aliases, that
the Phantom had ventured, cautionsly it was true, but never-
theless had ventured out into the underworld again.
The Tocsin's note! It came uppermost into his mind now.
It was the first sign of existence she had given since that
night at old Miser Scroff's.
His lips were still twisted in a smile, but there was some-
thing cold, forbidding, far removed from smiles, that seemed
suddenly now to weigh upon his spirits. She had written;
but it had only been to accentuate, as it were, her decision,
what she had said that night when he had been so sure of
taking his place again beside her. Alone! That was it-
alone! It was her love, of course, her great unselfish love,
that prompted her to try to keep him out of the “shadows,"
out of her dangers. The note reiterated it; he knew it word
for word:
gn of she uppermoworld again.
ate, pirits. Shes, that as some
“Dear Philanthropic Crook:- I see that you are incorrigible. If
I thought that it would do any good I would implore you again
oh, Jimmie, I do implore you to leave all this to me, and to go
back at once to your own life. I am half mad with fear for you.
There is something, some trap being laid, and I cannot find out what
it is. I only know that the Phantom has become suspicious that
behind the Gray Seal's repeated blows there is more than a mere
desire to reap where the Phantom has sown. I only know that the
Phantom is convinced that he himself is the Gray Seal's one and
only object; and, in turn, the Phantom means to move heaven and
earth now to get the Gray Seal-first. Oh, I know you won't do as


132 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
I ask you! I know you too well. I know that, if anything, this
hint of danger will perhaps even urge you on. But I had to write.
I had to warn you because I am afraid, and because I know that
in some way, with all his hideous cunning behind it, the Phantom is
laying a trap for you that. "
Bunty Myers swung around in his chair, and made a gri-
mace at the hypodermic syringe with whose needle Jimmie
Dale was now pricking the skin of his forearm.
“Say, can dat, Smarly!” he complained. “Youse give me
nerves. Youse've been monkeyin' wid dat squirt gun for
de last half hour. If it won't work, for Gawd's sake go
down to de Chink's, or somewhere else, and hit a pipe."
The door opened.
Mechanically Jimmie Dale restored the hypodermic to his
pocket. He was staring at the doorway. It was not the sud-
den appearance of that hag-like, black-shawled figure that set
his brains at work in swift, lightning flashes, and brought
every faculty he possessed into play to preserve the indif-
ference, even apathy, that became the supposedly drug-
dulled Smarlinghue, for Mother Margot, he knew, was a
frequent visitor here. It was not Mother Margot who caused
his pulse to stir now; it was the man who had stepped into
the room behind her-Little Sweeney.
It seemed somehow to dovetail and fit most curiously into
his thoughts of Shiftel of a few moments gone. His hand,
inside his pocket, as it released the hypodermic closed instead
upon his automatic. He kept staring at the door-behind
Little Sweeney. Was there still some one else? The last
time these two had been together there had been another with
them. That night at Mrs. Kinsey's, when they had tried to
rob the old deaf woman of her savings! There had been
another with them then-Limpy Mack. But Limpy Mack
was also Shiftel, also Gentleman Laroque; in a word, the
Phantom. Was Shiftel, or the Phantom in whatever guise
he chose to assume, there behind these two to-night? Little
Sweeney had not been heard of or seen since that night.
This was Little Sweeney's first appearance, and
The door closed.


LITTLE SWEENEY
133
"Smarly, se knows Lit There waother Marg
Little Sweeney, with a nod that embraced everybody, leaned
nonchalantly back against the door and lighted a cigarette.
Mother Margot stared around the room, and then her eyes
fixed on Jimmie Dale. He saw her glance swiftly then, in-
terrogatively, at Bunty Myers.
Bunty Myers waved his hand.
"Smarly, meet Mother Margot,” he said off-handedly.
“Mabbe youse knows Little Sweeney."
Meet Mother Margot! There was something exquisitely
ironical in this, wasn't there? If Mother Margot but knew
how many times and under what circumstances they had
met before!
Mother Margot loosened her shawl, and slumped down in
a chair.
"Everybody knows Smarlinghue,” she grunted.
"Sure," said Little Sweeney from the door.
“Glad to meet you both,” said Smarlinghue cordially.
There was silence for a moment. Mother Margot folded
her hands patiently in her lap. The silence, prolonged, grew
embarrassed. Bunty Myers broke it.
“Beat it !” he suggested uncompromisingly to Jimmie Dale.
Jimmie Dale, as Smarlinghue, vacant eyed as he looked
around the room, rose from his chair. It was a little awk-
ward-a little awkward to carry it off as though it were
quite a matter of course. He grinned around the circle.
"See you all again,” said Smarlinghue pleasantly.
Little Sweeney opened the door.
"Damned thick in here, this smoke," said Little Sweeney,
as Smarlinghue shuffled through. "I'll leave it open till the
room clears out a bit. 'Night, Smarly!”
"Good-night!” said Jimmie Dale still pleasantly; but out
in the hall, and as he turned and went down the stairs, his
lips tightened into a straight line.
Little Sweeney was no fool! The fire escape, just within
reach, just outside the window of the room where the broken
pane mended with cardboard had once before supplied him,
Jimmie Dale, with a vantage point from which he could both
see and hear all that went on within, was barred to him now


LITTLE SWEENEY
135
5 day, he was here now, the man onc
tween this return of both Little Sweeney and Isaac Shiftel to
activity? He meant to see! The two had been very closely
allied that night at Mrs. Kinsey's, and particularly later on
that same night in Limpy Mack's hang-out under Sen Yat's
"tea shop.”
And so, somehow--he smiled grimly-he was more con-
cerned with Little Sweeney than with Mother Margot to-
night. Little Sweeney might lead him to Shiftel; Mother
Margot he had already tried too often to have any hopeful
expectations raised on that score. To reach the Phantom,
in the guise of Shiftel, or any other, was the one thing in
life that he sought; to meet the man once again face to face
was why he was here now, why night after night, and day
after day, he still risked his life playing this precarious rôle
of Smarlinghue in the underworld. Even a chance was
worth while. It was rather curious that Little Sweeney and
Shiftel, both of whom had dropped completely out of sight
for so long a time, should both now have made their appear-
ance again! And so, at the present moment, he was ex-
ceedingly interested in Little Sweeney!
Jimmie Dale crouched there in the shadows. Pedestrians
passed up and down. Perhaps a quarter of an hour went by.
Then the side door of Kerrigan's opened, and a shawled
figure stepped out and scurried away. Mother Margot!
And then presently the door opened again, and Little Swee-
ney and Bunty Myers came out together.
Jimmie Dale slipped out on the street, and, on the oppo-
site side, followed the two men as they went down the block.
At the corner they separated, and Jimmie Dale took up Little
Sweeney's trail.
Block after block the man traversed. Jimmie Dale, hug-
ging the shadows of the buildings, kept a position as nearly
opposite the man across the street as he dared, wary always
of a corner around which the man might turn, and, with too
great a distance separating them, disappear into some place
should that be his objective-before he, Jimmie Dale, could
round the corner and pick up the trail again.
Little Sweeney walked fast, obviously unconscious of pur-


LITTLE SWEENEY
137
drew back; and the next instant, after a swift glance around
him to make sure that he was unobserved, with a spring, lithe
and agile as a cat, he swung himself over the fence from the
sidewalk, and dropped without a sound to the yard on the
other side. He began to move noiselessly along the section
of the fence which flanked the lane. It ran straight to the
edge of the garage, he had observed from the street, and-
yes, it ended there! He was in luck! He was crouched
now against the wall of the garage itself, which obviously,
though it was too dark to see, served to complete the enclo-
sure, in lieu of fence, at this corner of the yard.
sure, inolta he
He could hear them talking now as plainly as though he
were inside, for he was separated from them only by the
thin metal sheeting of the garage; and, furthermore, just
above his head, shoulder high, where a faint light seeped out,
the window was open.
“This is a sweet, juicy place for a meeting !" Little Swee-
ney's voice grumbled.
“Wot's de matter wid it?" another voice demanded, with
a hint of truculency. “It's as good as anywhere else, I guess,
an' a blamed sight better'n most. I told youse I had to make
a trip first with some swag for a friend of mine."
"Oh, all right, Goldie!” said Little Sweeney placatingly.
"All right! I know you did. Forget it!"
Jimmie Dale raised himself cautiously, and, back at an
angle from the window sash that precluded the possibility of
being seen, looked inside. His lips tightened suddenly. The
other two were no strangers, either to any one in the under-
world or to the police. Goldie Kline and the Weasel ! Goldie
Kline was one of the cleverest box-workers in the business;
the Weasel, a shrivelled little runt, was without a peer as a
second-story man.
It was the Weasel now who spoke.
“Me,” he said, “I tell youse straight I wouldn't touch dem
stones on a bet if any one but old Shiftel was goin' to fence
’em, 'cause dere ain't no one else could get away wid 'em. De
Melville-Dane emerald necklace! Swipe me! Dere ain't a
stone in de bunch dat ain't known all over de lot, an' it'll


138 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
take some shovin', even by Shiftel, to cash in on 'em. De
lady wid de name parted in de middle'll be — ”
“Close your face!” said Little Sweeney politely. "You've
seen Shiftel, haven't you, and he's settled that to your sat-
isfaction ? All you fellows have to do is get the stones to-
night, and leave the rest to him.”
"Sure!” said the Weasel blithely. "I ain't kickin'! I'm
only sayin' dat I wouldn't go in on de deal wid nobody else
but Shiftel. Well, spill de rest of it! We're to slip him de
stones as soon as we pinches 'em. Dat's understood. An'
youse have come down here to tell us where he's layin' low
to-night, an' where we're goin' to find him; so let's have it."
Jimmie Dale leaned forward a little in strained attention.
Shiftel! The one man he would risk, that he had risked,
limb and life and liberty to reach! He had made no mistake
in following Little Sweeney!
And then a blank look, that changed swiftly to one of bit-
ter dismay, settled on Jimmie Dale's face. The roar of the
engine starting up had suddenly drowned out all other sound.
No it was subsiding a little now. He caught Goldie Kline's
voice:
"Aw, we can talk in de car. I gotta get dat job I was
tellin' youse about done before ten o'clock. Dat's de only
t'ing dere's any hurry about. De necklace job don't come off
till de early mornin' when de dame's gone bye-bye. Jump
in, Sweeney; we'll drop youse anywhere youse like.”
They were gone—the car, Little Sweeney, the Weasel,
Goldie Kline! Jimmie Dale stood there alone in the blackness
of the yard. He could not follow them. They were gone.
It had seemed that success at last had been actually within
his grasp. It numbed him now somehow that it had been so
swiftly and unexpectedly snatched away. He had little or
no chance of finding Little Sweeney again to-night; he might,
with luck, pick up the trail of Goldie Kline or the Weasel
somewhere in the underworld, but- He had turned
away from the garage, making his way back toward the
street, and now he halted abruptly, staring into the darkness.
Had he lost his wits? What was this that his subconscious


LITTLE SWEENEY
139
red home as he remembwere his owhat was in
mind had kept whispering over and over to him as the key-
note of everything from the moment the name had been
mentioned ? Melville-Dane! Melville-Dane! That was in
his own world, wasn't it? They were his own friends.
Strange! Curious! Yes, he remembered now. Soon after
he had ventured home again following his "absence” from
the city, due to that night at Pedler Joe's, he had found an
invitation to some affair, a reception, if he were not mis-
taken, at the Melville-Danes' for to-night. He had sent his
regrets, it was true; but he was on too intimate a footing
with them to have that make any difference.
And now Jimmie Dale moved on again, reached the fence,
and gained the sidewalk on the other side. He was also well
acquainted with that emerald necklace-a priceless thing
that seldom left the shelter of its safe deposit vault. Mrs.
Melville-Dane was evidently wearing it to-night at the recep-
tion!
He started on along the street. A word of warning, then,
to the Melville-Danes—or the police ? He shook his head.
By the time Goldie Kline and the Weasel attempted the
proposed robbery in the Melville-Dane home, they would be
in possession of something far more valuable to him, Jimmie
Dale, than all the emeralds in existence—they would know
where Shiftel could be found to-night.
"And I think,” said Jimmie Dale softly to himself, as he
quickened his pace, “I think, Smarlinghue, that we'll leave
you at the Sanctuary for the rest of the night!"


- XIII –
THE LESSER BREED
NVROM somewhere in the darkness there came a faint
musical purr as of metal whirring swiftly upon metal.
I It stopped ; began again; and stopped again. Then
utter silence reigned; then there came a low, deep-breathed
exclamation, and simultaneously the ray of a flashlight cut
through the black, flooded the interior of a small safe, and
reflected back upon a masked figure in evening dress.
“One of the X—38 type," murmured Jimmie Dale to
himself; "and, as per catalogue, especially adapted for pri-
vate residences. Tough little nuts to crack! I haven't seen
one since the old days at the plant when dad used to turn
them out by the gross !”
He reached inside the safe, lifted out a morocco-leather
jewel case, and opened it. For an instant he held it under
the light, staring at a magnificent emerald necklace of flaw-
less, matched stones. The Weasel had been quite right!
Stones such as these must have been garnered and selected
from the markets of more than one continent. They would
be, through the usual underworld channels, extremely hard
to "fence"; for a small and ordinary emerald was not of
any great value, and to “cut" one of these and so disguise it,
would instantly rob it of the great part of its worth. It was
certainly a job for Shiftel! It quite accounted for Shiftel's
reappearance!
Jimmie Dale laid the jewel case, still open, on the top of
the safe, and from the leather girdle hidden beneath his vest
drew out the thin metal box that was stocked with its little
gray, adhesive, diamond-shaped seals. He moistened one
of these, lifting it with the tweezers, and stuck it on the
al underd ordinaryhese and
140


THE LESSER BREED
141
inside of the jewel case; then he replaced the metal box in
his girdle, and slipped the morocco-leather jewel case into
his pocket.
And now the light bored into the safe again. There was
nothing else there of value from a thief's standpoint. It
contained what were evidently some of Mr. Melville-Dane's
private papers; it had only been a temporary refuge for the
emerald necklace, in lieu of the safe deposit vault from
which it had been removed to grace the evening's reception.
Satisfied on this point, Jimmie Dale closed and locked the
safe again.
He drew back now across the room, and, smiling curiously,
arranged two low-backed chairs side by side before the
library table. Then his flashlight played for a moment on
the wall, locating precisely the electric-light switch just
beside a little alcove that was hung with heavy portières ;
and then the room was in darkness, and Jimmie Dale sat
stretched at ease in a lounging chair in the alcove behind the
hangings.
His lips twitched grimly now. It was quite a transition
from Smarlinghue and the back room of Wally Kerrigan's
“club!” It was somewhat different, too, in another way.
At Wally Kerrigan's, night after night, he had waited and
watched for something, anything, that would open the road
to the goal he had set himself—the Phantom; to-night he
waited and watched here, quite sure in his own mind as to
the exact nature of what would happen, and with no mis-
givings any longer but that his goal was in sight! In an
hour, two hours, at any rate some time before dawn, he
would have run Shiftel, alias the Phantom, to earth. It was
the end in sight at last; life, happiness, for the Tocsin and
himself.
It was very dark, very still in the library of the Melville-
Dane mansion here. Again the twisted smile crossed his lips.
Here too was quite a transition from the brilliant assembly
of but an hour before when he had been one of the guests
at a social function that had been, from a society point of
view, one of the events of the season. His smile became a


THE LESSER BREED
143
A faint sound, the sound of a cautious, guarded footstep,
caught his ear. He stood up silently, his automatic in his
hand. The door at the far end of the library creaked slightly;
and then, through the parting of the hangings in front of
him, Jimmie Dale saw the white gleam of an electric torch
flash around the room.
Low whisperings reached him now. He parted the hang-
ings another half inch. The flashlight was playing on the
safe; two dark forms were moving quickly toward it; and
now one of the two knelt before the safe and began to manip-
ulate the dial, while the other held the light over the kneeling
man's shoulder.
Jimmie Dale stepped noiselessly from behind the portières.
His hand reached upward, there was a faint click as his fingers
closed on the electric-light switch, and the room was ablaze
with light. A smothered oath came from the kneeling man
as he sprang to his feet; the other, startled, dropped his elec-
tric torch to the floor. And then silence, an absence of all
movement, save that, in obedience to an eloquent gesture
from the muzzle of Jimmie Dale's automatic into which they
stared, the two men slowly raised their hands above their
heads.
"Hello, Goldie! Hello, Weasel!” said Jimmie Dale softly
from behind his mask. “I was almost beginning to think you
weren't coming." He waved his hand toward the two chairs
by the table. “I've been waiting for you, you see. Sit down,
won't you?”
The Weasel, licking at his lips, his shrivelled little face
working, swore under his breath.
“Who—who are youse?” he demanded shakily.
“We'll talk about that presently, Weasel,” Jimmie Dale
answered coolly. "In the meantime”-his voice hardened
suddenly, rasping, cold—“go over there and sit down!"
Truculently, hesitatingly, their hands still above their
heads, the two men moved forward and sat down in the
chairs.
“Now”_Jimmie Dale was biting off his words, as he
stepped swiftly behind them-"one at a time. You first,


144 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Goldie. Put your hands around the back of the chair, palms
together.” And then as the man obeyed, Jimmy Dale thrust
his left hand into the tail pocket of his evening coat, pro-
duced a small coil of stout cord, and shook it out to its full
length. It had two loops near the centre in the form of
slip knots. He slipped one of the loops over Goldie Kline's
wrists, and tightened it. “Now you, Weasel !"
The other loop closed upon the Weasel's wrists. A mo-
ment more, and the respective ends of the cord were lashed
to the respective chairs, and Jimmie Dale stepped around to
the other side of the table to face the two men.
He smiled at them for a moment speculatively.
Goldie Kline burst suddenly into a torrent of blasphemy.
Jimmie Dale's smile became plaintive.
“That's rather foolish of you, Goldie," he said. “You are
making quite a little noise, and from your standpoint I
should say that was the one thing to avoid.”
The Weasel squirmed in his chair.
"Who are youse?” he demanded hoarsely again. “Wot's
de lay? Youse're no dick wid dat mask on yer map."
"You are quite right,” said Jimmie Dale calmly. “As a
matter of fact, I am afraid I am in the same category as
yourselves to-night. Shall we say—fellow thieves? The
only difference being that I have got what I came for, and
you haven't.”
The Weasel's rat-like little eyes narrowed. He leaned
forward.
“Wot do youse mean?” he snarled.
Jimmie Dale took the morocco-leather jewel case from his
pocket, opened it, and laid it down on the table in front of
the two men.
"This !” he said tersely.
The men bent forward, staring. It was a minute before
either spoke. Goldie Kline raised his eyes and cast a fur-
tive, fear-startled glance at Jimmie Dale. The Weasel licked
his lips again.
"My Gawd!" whispered the Weasel thickly. “It's de Gray
Seal!"


146 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
thought you would help me out. In fact, I actually counted
on it.”
"Youse don't say!” The Weasel was quite at his ease
now, sneering broadly.
And then Jimmie Dale leaned suddenly across the table.
All trace of facetiousness was gone from both voice and
manner now. He drew his watch from his pocket.
“Listen, you two—and listen hard!” he said evenly. "I'm
going to give you two minutes to come across. It might be
compounding a felony to let you get away from here, but
you didn't steal anything—though that's not your fault-
and I'm thinking of the long terms you would get, even for
'breaking and entering,' with your records behind you. Am
I making myself clear? A little noise down here will bring
the family and servants about your ears in short order—while
I go out the way you came in. If they find you here, even
trussed up as you are, I imagine you will find it rather diffi-
cult to explain to the police how you came to visit Mr.
Melville-Dane at half past two o'clock in the morning. On
the other hand, an earnest half-hour's work—the time I
should like to feel I was guaranteed against any interference
on your part—will free you from that cord, and once free
you can walk out of here. I still hope I am making myself
clear.” He glanced at his watch. “One minute has already
gone. Where were you to meet Shiftel ?”
A whitish tinge had crept into Goldie Kline's face.
“Damn youse!” he whispered fervently.
The Weasel squirmed again in his chair. He looked at
Goldie Kline.
"I ain't for goin' up for nothin'!” There was a sudden
nerveless whine in his voice. “He's got de goods anyhow.
We ain't goin' to lose nothin' by tellin'. Wot-wot d’youse
say, Goldie ?”
Goldie Kline gnawed at his lips.
"All right,” he muttered after a moment. "Spill it. I
guess dere ain't nothing else to do.”
"Just a minute," said Jimmie Dale coolly. He replaced
his watch in his pocket. “It would be unfortunate if there
say: Jdie Kline
muttered a to do.". Molly. He


THE LESSER BREED
147
were a mistake in the address. I am sure your memories are
good enough to recall certain instances in the underworld
that will reassure on the point that the Gray Seal always pays
his debts. I mention this simply in passing. And now-
where is Shiftel waiting for you?”
It was the Weasel who answered.
"He's in de room off de back yard, down at Morley's dope
joint,” he said sullenly.
“Thank you!” said Jimmie Dale grimly. “I know where
that is.” He moved away from the table and toward the
door. Here he paused for a moment. The two men were
already tugging and struggling with their bonds. “I forgot
to say,” he said quietly, “that there is nothing of any value
left in the safe! Good-night!”
And then Jimmie Dale was gone.


- XIV -
THE CAT'S-PAW
VIVE minutes later, Jimmie Dale climbed into the light
K runabout that, prior to the reception, he had unob-
trusively parked in an alleyway a block from the
Melville-Dane residence. He replaced his silk hat with a
peaked cap which he drew out from under the seat-and the
car shot forward into the street.
He drove fast now. He had no thought of speed laws.
Shiftel—the Phantom—the end in sight! He had no thought
for anything but that; he asked for nothing more than just
this, which was at last to be granted him, of playing out the
final hand with this inhuman fiend to whom murder was a
trade, and crime of the basest sort a pastime. There was
room now for only one of them—the Phantom or himself-
in this world. The debt that lay between them was too
abysmal to be plumbed or spanned in any other way.
And yet the man should have his chance; a chance to fight
for his life. He was not entitled to it; he, the Phantom,
under the same conditions would have struck as quickly and
murderously as he could. In fact, if the Tocsin was right,
as no doubt she was, the Phantom even now was preparing
a trap which, to-morrow, the next day, or the day after, was
intended to be sprung in the hope of snaring him, Jimmie
Dale, the Gray Seal; and that trap once sprung successfully
he, Jimmie Dale, would go out with no more chance for life
than the flame of a candle flung to the storm! But there
would be no to-morrow, or the next day, or the day after,
for the Phantom and his trap; to-night, now, within the
next few minutes, there would be no longer need for the
Phantom to cudgel his brain for tricks and devices to lure
the Gray Seal into his web!
148


THE CAT'S-PAW
149
The streets were deserted. A strange, queer silence seemed
to reign over the city. Somehow it seemed sinister, premoni-
tive-aptly so. Still Jimmie Dale drove fast. And then
finally, far over on the East Side, deep in a neighbourhood
as vicious and abandoned as New York had to offer, he
parked his car again in a lane, sprang out, and started at a
brisk walk along the block.
There was a grim, set look on his face now, as his hand,
slipping into his pocket for his automatic, encountered the
morocco-leather jewel case. Shiftel was waiting for the
necklace! Well, Shiftel should have it—for a moment. But,
at that, its safety was nowhere nearly so greatly imperilled as
if it had been left as a temptation for Goldie Kline and the
Weasel! To-morrow, in some way, it would be back in the
Melville-Danes' possession again.
Jimmie Dale swerved sharply into a cross street, and from
there into an alleyway. His pace slackened, became guarded,
cautious. He knew Morley's opium den by more than hear-
say. As Smarlinghue, he had been a supposed client more
than once. Yes, here it was—the back of it, anyway, over
this fence here, and across the yard. Well, it was the back
of it he sought, wasn't it? That was what the Weasel had
said—the room off the back yard.
He drew himself up to the top of the fence, dropped si-
lently to the other side, and suddenly his pulse beat fast.
Across the yard was an open, lighted window, almost on a
level with the ground. Unbridled now, almost overwhelm-
ing, that sense of exhilaration was upon him again. The
end of the chase! What did it not mean–for the Tocsin-
for himself!
Jimmie Dale moved forward quietly, noiselessly—ten yards
-another ten. He was not far from the window now, not
more than another five yards. And now he could see inside.
Shiftel! And now he knew another emotion-something
cold, merciless, primitive in its naked thirst for retribution.
The Weasel had made no “mistake!" Shiftel was there!
He could see the bent form in its greasy black coat; he could
see the bearded face of the old “fence” bending over a table,


THE CAT'S-PAW
151
gun in action behind him, came the roar and flash of what
seemed a myriad revolver shots.
It happened quick—quicker almost than the brain could
grasp. The bearded, greasy old figure, intent evidently upon
his victim alone, had overstepped the zone of safety, stepped
a little forward into the line of the window; and now, with a
wild cry, with suddenly upflung arms, as the hail of lead
swept in, had pitched face forward to the floor.
And something in Jimmie Dale's soul, amidst the turmoil
that was raging physically about him, gave quiet, fervent
thanks. Not for a man's death—but that the burden and
guilt, if it should be termed guilt to destroy such a one as this,
one that, to save the life of the woman he loved, he must have
destroyed if he could before his own end came, had been
lifted from his shoulders. Shiftel was dead!
Jimmie Dale had wriggled around on the floor. He was
facing the window now, firing in turn with his automatic.
The low sill afforded a measure of protection. He fired
from the floor over it. Shouts, yells, curses answered him;
but the rush was checked, though the shots still poured in
from without.
And now pandemonium seemed loosed! He glanced
around him quickly. The door of the room was locked.
That was obvious because they were pounding upon it now,
trying to burst it in; and it had been locked, quite obviously
and quite logically, in preparation for his entry into the trap,
and against the possibility of any escape through what was
the only means of exit he could see-except the window
with its hail of bullets !
It was the end! He slipped a fresh clip of cartridges into
his automatic. But now he fired with more restraint. True,
it was the end, but he must be careful of his ammunition
now; he would need it even more when that door gave!
It was an even break. Himself for Shiftel! It was worth
it; it had been worth it—for her sake. Shiftel, the Phantom,
was-
Was he mad? Had this scene from the pit of the inferno,
that bursting door, these shots that hummed with hell's venom


152 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
above his head, this smoke-filled, acrid-stinking room, turned
his brain? Shiftel! That was not Shiftel there! Nor Gen-
tleman Laroque! He was staring now for the first time at
the still, motionless figure on the floor. The beard on the
upturned face hung awry. He reached for it, and snatched
it off. A thousand noises, a thousand sounds pounded at his
eardrums and made mockery of the crashing blows upon the
door, the vicious spat of bullets, the hideous yowling of those
human wolves who had the Gray Seal trapped at last. This
man on the floor here dead was not Shiftel, nor the Phan-
tom in the guise of Shiftel, nor the Phantom in any other
guise. It was Little Sweeney!
The door was yielding now. And somehow-he did not
understand why or how for his brain seemed stunned—the
noise and the shouts without seemed to increase in intensity.
He wriggled back a little way across the room where he
could best command both window and door. He had still
one clip of cartridges left. He had only one hope now-
that he could use them to the last one. In another minute
the door would give, and —
"Jimmie!"
Yes, he was mad! Reason at the last had fled from him.
That was her voice, the Tocsin's voice. As those shadows
outside the window had suddenly closed in upon him out of
the nowhere, so this voice, the voice he loved, came suddenly
to him now out of the nowhere.
"Jimmie!"
His eyes strained over in the direction of the desk. He
could see nothing. There was nothing there, unless—yes, yes,
the floor seemed to have risen up a few inches above the sur-
rounding level. A trap door !
"You!" he cried.
“Yes! Quick! Quick, Jimmie, quick!” her voice an-
swered from below.
He flung himself forward, and wrenched the trap door
wide open. It was pitch black below; he could see nothing.
“Drop, Jimmie; it's only a few feet,” she called up to him.


THE CAT'S-PAW
153
"Bolt the trap door behind you. And, oh, hurry, Jimmie,
hurry!"
He swung himself through the opening, and dropped;
then reached upward behind him and closed the trap door.
His fingers searched for the bolt, found it, and shot it home.
He could not stand upright; he had to stoop, the opening was
so low. And it was so dark he could not see his hand before
his face.
"Where are you?” he cried out. "Marie, thank God for
you! Marie, where are you ?”!
"Here,” her voice replied. “Follow me; come this way."
“I can't see you—I can't see anything," he said ; then
quickly: “Wait! I've got a flashlight.”
"No!" Her voice came back instantly. “You mustn't
show a light here under any circumstances. Keep your head
down, and feel your way. You can touch the walls on each
side of you."" your way. You can touch. Keep your head
"All right!” he answered.
He could hear her moving ahead of him. Half bent over,
he followed. Soft earth was under foot. It was a low,
narrow tunnel of some sort, that was evident. An under-
ground passage, of course. Morley's drug-den was well
equipped !
His brain was in chaos. Shiftel, Bunty Myers, the emer-
ald necklace, Little Sweeney! And the Tocsin here!
"Marie, I don't understand !” he burst out.
"It was the trap I warned you about,” she answered back.
“Yes; I know that now," he said. “But Shiftel! That
wasn't Shiftel up there. It was Little Sweeney.”
"He was the cat’s-paw," she said.
He stumbled on. Where did this passage lead to? Was
there no end to it?
"Hold on a minute, Marie! Stop!” he pleaded suddenly.
“You— "
“There is no time; there is not an instant to lose," she
broke in swiftly "I-I—but never mind that. I can tell
you in a few words what you do not understand as we go on.
Are you listening, Jimmie?”


THE CAT’S-PAW
155
was impossible. If you were only after spoils, you would
know nothing about the necklace, and so would not get it;
but if you were after him you would come here, and he
would get you! Do you still understand, Jimmie?"
“Yes,” he answered; "all but Little Sweeney's part.”
"It was risky business playing the part of Shiftel-some-
thing might go wrong,” she said bitterly. “And the Phan-
tom takes no risks—when he can let some one else assume
them! That is why he had some one play the part of Shiftel.
Little Sweeney received his orders through Limpy Mack with
whom, as you know, he had worked before, not knowing that
Limpy Mack and Shiftel and the unknown ‘Chief' were one;
and Little Sweeney of course thought it was a clever way to
induce two crooks to steal the jewels, for Little Sweeney was
made to believe that Shiftel had left the country for good.
Limpy Mack supplied the disguise, which was actually of
course the one worn by himself when he masqueraded as
Shiftel.” .
"Good God!” gasped Jimmie Dale. "I see now!”
“Yes !” she said. “There is not much more. Little Swee-
ney was chosen because he had been away during your later
appearances, and was therefore free from suspicion that
any leak had come through him; and Goldie Kline and the
Weasel were chosen for the same reason—they were wholly
outsiders. That's all-except my share. I had sent you no
word, no note. I didn't think you could possibly know any-
thing about to-night; and so I didn't expect you would come
here, and in that respect I thought the Phantom would fail.
But I knew that Shiftel was to be here at this hour-for I
believed then that it was actually Shiftel himself and so I
notified the police. If they got Shiftel, then that was the
end of our troubles. They—they are there now. They came
just as I reached the trap door-but”-her voice seemed to
dull a little--"they haven't got the Phantom."
Jimmie Dale made no answer. His lips were tight and
grimly set. The Phantom was still alive, still at liberty,
still free to carry on his fiendish machinations! But— Jim-
mie Dale's face relaxed a little the next instant-it was not


156 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
all utter failure and defeat. She was here! The Tocsin was
here with him. And he, Jimmie Dale, was alive, where but
a few minutes before he had seen no chance of life. They
were together-Marie and himself. In a moment more now
the tunnel must end, and she
Her voice, suddenly low and guarded, reached him.
“Wait !” she whispered. “Stay where you are. I'll see
if the way is clear.”
He stood still.
A minute passed, and then she called again:
"It's all right. Come on!”
His hands still groped out before him as he moved for-
ward again, and, groping, discovered that the tunnel here took
an abrupt right-angled bend. And then as he turned the
corner, and a cool, fresh current of air fanned his face, he
found himself on a flight of steps, and he could straighten
up and there was head room as he mounted them.
And then he was standing outside a doorway on a dark
and deserted street. He could hear the sound of shouts, of
revolver shots, but the sounds came faintly from the dis-
tance. They were safe now, quite safe, the Tocsin and
himself. He looked quickly, eagerly around him. He called
her softly.
But there was no answer—and of the Tocsin there was no
sign.


- XV —
BEHIND THE DOORS OF THE UNDERWORLD
IMMIE DALE turned softly, without sound, upon the
bunk, easing his position. Around him were whisper-
ings, murmurings, the stir of humans in troubled sleep,
a hundred conglomerate, sinister sounds; and everywhere the
sickly sweetish smell of opium.
His face was haggard, worn, drawn, in sharp, pinched
lines, and there was a dull, weary look about the eyes
that no “make-up” could have supplied, as a smile, grim,
unbidden, settled now upon his lips. Was this reality? Per-
haps it was all a dream—a dream such as the poppy brought
to these dregs and lees of the underworld who stole in here,
where no daylight had ever shone, to burn their suicidal in-
cense to the God of Gray Things!
Reality! Could even his existence in itself be reality?
Was it any more reality than he, as Smarlinghue, as one
known far and wide throughout the underworld as a hope-
lessly confirmed dope fiend, represented reality? He was not
Smarlinghue. There was no such person as Smarlinghue.
And yet in that very character which he had created, unkempt
and ragged, he lay here now in one of Hip Foo's "private"
rooms, hidden deep down in the chain of sub-cellars that
housed perhaps the most infamous opium joint in all New
York! He was not a dope fiend. Neither taste nor drop of
the drug had he ever known. And yet he had burned a
thousand "pills," he had toyed with a hypodermic syringe a
thousand times, and before him even now lay the pipe that
the Chinese attendant had brought him but a few moments
since! Was it then reality, or but a dream, ceaseless, unend-
ing, whose vividness was so acute that it aped reality ? Was
157


158 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
it a dream that somewhere, always elusive, always just be-
yond his reach, always just evading him, a phantom, evil
as no other human being was evil, cunning as only one from
the fiend's pit itself was cunning, diced with him out of the
shadows for his life—and hers, the Tocsin's ?
Jimmie Dale's eyes closed. He was conscious of great
fatigue; not physical—mental. Days of striving, days of
utter failure, of futility, nights of unceasing, sleepless effort
lay behind him. Reality! The question answered itself. He
had but to listen for an instant through these thin, flimsy
partitions to know that it was not only reality, but a reality
stripped of all glamour, ugly in its nakedness and its menace.
It was only his brain voicing its plea for rest, giving warning
that it was nearing the breaking point and that the lash could
be applied too often to the slave, that had prompted the
groping question.
He listened now for a moment almost involuntarily. Here
was one of those underground exchanges where the secrets
of the underworld passed from mouth to mouth; where the
gossip of the Bad Lands circulated; where crimes were born;
where he had even heard his own death, the death of the
Gray Seal, decreed a score of times.
Whispers reached him. Two yeggs of the lesser breed,
whose names he did not know, were in there. Their con-
versation was snatchy, desultory, due presumably to the fact
that the opium was beginning to get in its work. There was
a reference to an uptown “job” of a week ago; a dance hall
fracas that had ended in a murder; the approval of the
sentence passed upon one English Steve by the fellow mem-
bers of his gang, and the speculation as to how many of the
gang English Steve would succeed in "bumping off” before
in turn English Steve finally received his own quietus.
Again Jimmie Dale turned noiselessly on his bunk. He
was not interested. Ten minutes before he had made a tour
of the sub-cellar here; and then, playing his part as Smarling-
hue, he had flung himself down on this bunk and given his
order. Neither Bunty Myers nor any other of the Phantom's
underlings were in evidence. He had not actually expected


BEHIND DOORS OF THE UNDERWORLD 159
to find them already here, he did not even expect them later
on; but in half an hour, or an hour, luck might change, and
they might come. He had simply made Hip Foo's his first
stopping place night after night of late because it had once
been the rendezvous of the men he wanted, because it was
here that some of them had met on the night the place had
been raided, and because, since the night that the Phantom
had laid the trap for him at Morley's, Bunty Myers and the
Kitten and Spud MacGuire and Muller no longer met in
the back, upstairs room of Wally Kerrigan's "club.” Per-
haps they would again in the future-some of them-perhaps
not!
Jimmie Dale's lips tightened. It had gone very badly with
the Phantom's plans that night. Apart from Little Sweeney,
Spud MacGuire and Muller, in the subsequent fight with
the police, had both been killed. Also, it had apparently
forced Bunty Myers and the Kitten into hiding. Certainly,
since that night, he, Jimmie Dale, had not been able to pick
up the slightest trace of either of them.
He swept his hand heavily across his eyes. He was not so
sure that he could wholly glory in the outcome of that night.
If the Phantom had received a blow, he, Jimmie Dale, had
perhaps received one that was even more disastrous. The
Phantom was still at large, still free to pursue his heinous
activities, but with the abandonment of Wally Kerrigan's
back room, even if only temporarily, by Bunty Myers and
the rest of his associates who hung on the Phantom's orders,
he, Jimmie Dale, had lost touch with everything and every
one connected with the Phantom-except Mother Margot!
Mother Margot! His lips twisted in a weary smile. She
had been of little service to him! So far as any information
he had been able to obtain from her was concerned, she
might as well have been non-existent. Not that she had at-
tempted to mislead or lie to him; he was satisfied on that
score because, being the sole connecting link with the Phan-
tom that was left to him, he had naturally watched her more
carefully than ever before. As the man in the black silk
mask, the man she knew as the Gray Seal, he had held her
leavily act in the outco Jimmie D


BEHIND DOORS OF THE UNDERWORLD 161
inspirinly, soon of thos Wally
cht-on
however, the veil that had shrouded the movements of the
Phantom and all those who had been connected with him
since that night at Morley's was simply the natural caution
inspired by what had so nearly been complete disaster, then
certainly, sooner or later, he, Jimmie Dale, would pick up
the trail again of those, such as were left of them, who once
had congregated at Wally Kerrigan's. That was why he
was here in Hip Foo's to-night-on the chance that, either
through their appearance in person, or through the mumbled
gossip which was the freer in dens like this where the incense
burned to the God of Poppy loosened men's and women's
tongues, he might find the lost threads again.
He asked no more than that-only to go on to the end while
there was yet time. And he was afraid to-night, afraid with
a great fear. How did he even know that it was not already
too late? How did he know that in her battle of wits with
the Phantom which she insisted in waging alone, unaided,
with her life at stake, the Tocsin, brave, resourceful, clever
though she was, had not already-
Through half-closed eyes Jimmie Dale watched the curtain
that hung across the doorway. Yes, undoubtedly, the foot-
step was no longer in evidence, and undoubtedly the curtain
was being drawn stealthily aside. He made no movement.
The opening widened, widened still further—and suddenly
the blood went whipping through Jimmie Dale's veins in a
mad, elated tide, and weariness was gone.
Reward! The light was dim, low, flickering, but he could
see well enough. It was not one of the Chinese attendants.
It was the shawled head of an old hag that was peering in
there. Mother Margot!
Still Jimmie Dale gave no sign that he was aware of the
other's presence. It was a reward at last for the days and
nights that were gone! Once before she had come here to
meet Bunty Myers, once before this had been the rendez-
vous—what else would she be here for to-night? He had
evidently been right then in hoping more from Hip Foo's
than from any other place. And it did not mean that she
had lied to him as the Gray Seal either. It might very well


162 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Jimmie Mouse, ain't it.d let the curtaithen she ca
be, and probably was, that, since last he had communicated
with her, the Phantom had suddenly broken silence and
through her was issuing his orders again.
She stood there on the threshold now, peering toward the
bunk, shading her eyes with her hand as though, even in the
dim light, it helped her the better to distinguish objects.
And for a moment she hesitated, then she came slowly
through the doorway and let the curtain fall behind her.
"Dat's youse, ain't it, Smarly ?” she whispered.
Jimmie Dale sat up on the bunk, and blinked at her. There
was something of grim, sardonic humour in the situation.
They had been formally “introduced” that night at Wally
Kerrigan's, and she knew Smarlinghue—as Smarlinghue.
But between Smarlinghue and the man she knew, yes, and
obeyed, as the Gray Seal, there was a gulf that she had never
crossed. The trumps were very much in his hands!
Jimmie Dale blinked again, rubbed his eyes, and stared at
her.
"Oh, hello!” he said, a little ungraciously. “It's Mother
Margot, eh?”
She nodded without speaking.
"Well?” It was Smarlinghue who spoke. "What's the
idea ? I ain't standing any free rides to dreamland-the
price has gone up.".
Mother Margot shook her head.
"Nobody's askin' youse to," she replied a little tartly. "I
ain't never been on dat kind of stuff, tank Gawd! I'm
lookin' for some one, dat's wot I'm here for."
Jimmie Dale permitted a slightly malicious grin to flicker
across his lips.
"You didn't seem to fall in love with me the night I got
shown out at Wally's," he observed, “so I guess it ain't me.
Try next door!”
She came a little closer, and lowered her voice.
“No, it ain't for youse,” she said ; “but mabbe youse'll do,
if youse ain't too stewed on coke.”
Jimmie Dale did not answer for a moment. Was the
entrée into the Phantom's circle here at last, an entrée in the


164 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
inaudible, coming through the partition, then she leaned close
to Jimmie Dale. Her lips scarcely moved.
“I'll get mine if I'm heard, or youse snitches on me," she
breathed in a frightened, jerky way. “But I got to do it.
I got to do it. I've been lookin' for hours, ever since early
in de afternoon, an' it ain't no good. I've looked everywhere,
an' I can't find him, an'-an' I didn't darst get too nosey
wid questions. Youse understand, Smarly? It's English
Steve. I got to get a message to English Steve, an' if I
don't he goes out. My Gawd, Smarly, youse gets dat, don't
youse? He goes out.”
Jimmie Dale stared at her. He experienced a sudden loss
of the elation, the uplift, that he had known but a moment
before in such full measure. English Steve! All the under-
world knew about English Steve! It was no secret. Even
those two hop-fighters in the next room, who ranked little
higher than stalls and steerers in the citizenry of the Bad
Lands, knew all about English Steve and his gang troubles.
He, Jimmie Dale, knew all about it. As Larry the Bat he
had even been personally acquainted with English Steve in
the olden days. Therefore he also knew—which was the
one thing that concerned him now—that English Steve had
nothing to do with Bunty Myers. And it was of Bunty
Myers, as the first step toward picking up again the Phan-
tom's trail, that he had expected Mother Margot to unburden
herself.
His eyes shifted to the ragged sleeve of his coat, to the
dirty, frayed, protruding wristband of his shirt. He had
hoped for too much evidently. Perhaps he should have
known better, but that did not lessen the disappointment.
True, he had called this woman from her pushcart on
Thompson Street only that morning, and had talked to her as
the Gray Seal over the telephone, and he had been thoroughly
satisfied then that she was as ignorant as he was of either
Bunty Myers' or the Phantom's movements; but until a
moment ago, in view of her appearance here, he had thought
that in the meantime the Phantom had communicated with
her. Well, he had been wrong, it seemed, and to-night was
Bunty Mthen that she telephone, ai, and had talk pushcarto


BEHIND DOORS OF THE UNDERWORLD 165
to be only another night of hollow results added to the nights
that had gone before. He had lost track of how many! It
didn't matter. He had hoped for too much, that was all.
She clutched at his sleeve frantically, in pitiful pleading.
"Youse ain't afraid, are youse, Smarly ?" she quavered.
“Youse don't have to get in between. All I'm askin' youse
is to help me find him, an' if youse finds him first to slip him
a message. Youse don't have to do nothin' else.”
“What's the message?" inquired Jimmie Dale, a little
gruffly.
"Just tell him to duck his nut out of New York to-night,
dat's all. Just tell him dat."
Jimmie Dale as Smarlinghue shook his head critically.
“He ain't that kind," he said. “I suppose you're talking
about him and his gang, but everybody that ain't deaf knows
he swore he'd get every last one of the outfit he used to
work with before they got him, if they tried any funny busi-
ness. What's the use of handing him any steer like that?”
“Never youse mind about dat," said Mother Margot
quickly. "He'll go if youse tells him it was me sent de word.
He ain't for runnin' into a trap, is he? Nobody but a fool
'ud do dat."
Jimmie Dale appeared to ponder the matter.
"What's the trap?” he demanded after a moment.
"I don't know," she answered miserably.
"Well then," prodded Jimmie Dale, “if you don't know
that, how do you know it's to-night they're laying for him,
and where do you come in? He ain't a long lost son you've
discovered, is he?”
She wrung her hands suddenly.
"Oh, my Gawd, Smarly," she whispered wildly, "we're
losin' time, an'-an' I'm afraid. Mabbe it's too late even
now. Dere ain't no use askin' me questions dat I can't
answer. I don't know how, an' I don't know where, but I
knows English Steve gets his to-night if he ain't tipped off
in time. For Gawd's sake don't ask me nothin' more. I owe
it to English Steve to wise him up. I got to do it if I can,
an' I'm askin' youse to help me. Youse will, won't youse,


166 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Smarly? Aw, for Gawd's sake, say youse will! Youse
won't be sorry. I-I'll make it up to youse, Mother Margot
don't never forget.”
Jimmie Dale swung his leg slowly over the edge of the
bunk. Well, why not? Mother Margot's advent had
brought him anything but what he had hoped for, but he was
certainly no worse off than he had been before her arrival.
English Steve and his gang affairs were too well known, too
public, to warrant any suspicion that there was any ulterior
object in Mother Margot's actions. He had not the slightest
doubt but that the gang had laid their plans for the removal
of English Steve to-night. It was quite on the cards. In
some way Mother Margot had got an inkling of this. She
probably owed English Steve a debt of some kind, due, as
probably, to some crooked work in the past in which they had
been engaged together. That, too, was quite on the cards.
Well, why not? He had no particular interest in English
Steve, but certainly he had no desire to stand by and allow
a murder, even the murder of a crook, to be committed if he
could prevent it. And then, too, there was another angle to
the affair. Mother Margot as a friend of Smarlinghue might
well mean far more than Mother Margot constrained by
fear to be the unwilling ally of the Gray Seal. And, besides,
from now until dawn his own search would be continued
through the underworld anyhow; and where he looked for
Bunty Myers or the Kitten, he would, as naturally as though
that were his sole quest, look for English Steve.
"All right,” said Jimmie Dale abruptly, as he stood up.
"I'll help you if I can. I guess I know a few dumps you
don't, but you keep on going yourself. We'll cover more
ground that way, and get on quicker. And it wouldn't do
either of us any good to be seen hunting together, neither,
Beat it!"
Mother Margot caught his hand impulsively.
"I knew youse would, Smarly! I knew youse would !"
she whispered in a choked voice. “Gawd bless youse, Sınarly,
youse're "
ght his hand imple knew youse "Sinarly,


BEHIND DOORS OF THE UNDERWORLD 167
It was Smarlinghue who grinned a little sheepishly, and
Smarlinghue who spoke.
"Aw, forget it!" he said. “I thought you said we was
losing time.” He brushed past her toward the doorway.
"I'll go out by the lane, you go out the other way. See?"
"Yes,” she answered; "but "
"So long!” said Smarlinghue, alias Jimmie Dale-and
vanished through the doorway.


- XVI-
ENGLISH STEVE
T was growing late, near midnight. Through the murk
of an uninviting, almost ominous-looking basement en-
trance, whose light, such as it was, seeped upward to the
sidewalk, Jimmie Dale emerged, and stood for a moment
staring up and down the dirty, shabby street.
A grim smile was playing on his lips. Behind him, down
those few dark, rickety steps up which he had just come,
and thence through an ill-lighted little cobbler's shop, where
a cobbler, who was a cobbler in but little more than name,
held an inner door against the invasion of undesirables and
the law, was a thug's den than which New York knew no
worse. Debauchery and crime, unbridled and unlicensed,
held sway there. None entered save the initiated-or those
the initiated lured there to fleece and work their will upon.
Likewise, it was a refuge from the law, and, as a refuge,
was without its peer. Mickey the Cobbler might not be a
very good cobbler or a past master of his art, but he was a
cheery sort and always paid his bills, and never overcharged
the poverty-stricken neighbourhood that innocently believed it
supported him with its patronage! So why should it not be
safe? Mickey the Cobbler stood high in the estimation of
the community, and therefore brought no suspicion upon
himself from the police.
Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. What did it matter?
There were dozens of places like that—and he had been in
and out of dozens of them since he had left Mother Margot
at Hip Foo's a few hours ago. What did it matter the degree
of pest hole from which he had just come? In so far as he
was concerned it had yielded him nothing, and in that respect
168


170 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
rose before his mind's eye. Here he was Smarlinghue; there
he was Jimmie Dale, the millionaire. He was almost begin-
ning to wonder which of the two was his real, actual entity.
Jimmie Dale; Smarlinghue—the Gray Seal! If it were ever
known! His eyes fastened on the ungraceful proprietor,
whose white coat was long overdue at the washtub, and
whose white cook's hat was limp and grease spotted. It
seemed a far cry to the white-haired, immaculate, perfectly
trained Jason, his own butler, who, too, sometimes served
him with coffee and sandwiches !
His mind mulled on. He kept staring about him. It was
strange! The place somehow seemed familiar. Well, why
shouldn't it? He had been in a lunch wagon before. Not
this one probably, but there wasn't much difference in the
genus lunch wagon, was there? No, that wasn't it! It
seemed rather to be striving to revive a memory that some-
how had to do with
Yes, he had it now! English Steve! But that was years
ago back in the days when he, Jimmie Dale, was Larry the
Bat in the underworld instead of the Smarlinghue of to-day.
It was in a lunch wagon just like this. English Steve had
been there, and two or three others of like ilk. They had
adjourned to English Steve's room for a game of cards, and
he, Jimmie Dale, as Larry the Bat, had accepted the invita-
tion to join them. Well, what of it? That wasn't where
English Steve lived now. English Steve had gone up in his
profession since he had lived in what was little better than
a shed behind old Michael's ship-chandler's shop. And he,
Jimmie Dale, had already been to English Steve's more pre-
tentious, if still seedy, quarters of to-day.
Strange, the stirring of that memory! What was it trying
to suggest? That English Steve still— It was absurd,
of course! That was years ago. It was the last place in all
New York that any one would look for English Steve to-day.
The last place that any one would-
Jimmie Dale's fingers fumbled in his pockets, and extracted
a coin. He laid it on the counter, mumbled again at the


ENGLISH STEVE
171
proprietor--this time, a good-night-and shuffled his way
out to the street.
The last place! The phrase battered at his mind now. If
that were so, it was the one place to look! And why was it
so absurd ? There was more than one man in New York
who maintained two establishments, and on a far more ex-
tensive scale, without publishing the fact broadcast! English
Steve was a crook of no mean order, and such an arrange-
ment might well have stood him in good stead more than
once in respect of the police, and, for that matter, with his
erstwhile associates—as it perhaps was serving him now at
this minute. With his increasing prominence, his rise in the
sordid realm of crime, English Steve had publicly moved into
a more “exclusive” neighbourhood among the élite of Crime-
land; but it might well be that he had continued to pay rent
for his former lodging—without any one being the wiser for
it save old Michael, his landlord, whose shop was stocked with
merchandise 'which consisted mainly of ships' stores and
fittings purloined by the wharf rats along the river front!
Birds of a feather!
It was worth putting to the test, at least. Certainly it was
a tangible, definite objective-something he had not had
before all night. He hurried now, twisting and turning
through alleyways and narrow, darkened streets, until finally
he had worked his way into a neighbourhood down near the
East River shore.
The buildings were fewer here, more scattered; there was
a generous sprinkling of vacant lots; few lights, and no
pedestrians. He halted at last in front of a low, squat, dingy
building, with large double doors and a grimy, unwashed
show window, through which latter, from the rays of a dis-
tant street lamp, was just discernible a display of miscel-
laneous second-hand ships' fittings—a heap of tarpaulin,
ropes, blocks, tackles and other articles of like nature. This
was old Michael's. If the man had another name, he, Jimmie
Dale, did not know what it was. There was only one old
Michael on the East Side, and that was enough.
The place was in darkness. It stood detached, unprotected
building.dow. through which cernible a display,
paulin,


172 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
by either fence or enclosure, and Jimmie Dale now made his
way rapidly around to the rear. Here a sort of extension, in
the shape of an exaggerated lean-to, projected out from the
back of the building. It was here that in the days gone by, a
miserable, barely weather-proof hole, English Steve had
made his home. And here, too, as in front, the place was
in utter darkness.
Jimmie Dale stepped to the door, and knocked softly upon
it. There was no answer. He knocked louder, insistently.
There was still no response. And then he smiled a little
ironically at himself. He had come quite a long way—and
quite probably on a fool's errand. Certainly English Steve
did not appear either to be at home or in hiding here!
He stood at the door for a moment frowning. He had
begun to doubt very much now that English Steve had ever
cast eyes on the place again from the day he had taken up his
quarters nearer the Bowery; but mere doubt did not in any
way disprove the theory that, somehow, back there in the
lunch wagon, had suddenly taken possession of him. English
Steve might very well be absent at this precise moment-and
might very well at the same time still be old Michael's tenant.
Jimmie Dale's jaws snapped suddenly' together. He had
come quite far enough to make it worth while to find out
that much anyhow! He tried the door. It was locked, of
course.
From one of the upright pockets in the leather girdle
beneath his threadbare vest, Jimmie Dale drew out a little
blued-steel pick-lock, and from another a diminutive, though
none the less powerful, flashlight. For a moment the trained
fingers worked swiftly at the lock, then the door swung open,
and Jimmie Dale stepped inside.
He closed the door quietly behind him, and for an instant
stood still, listening; then the white ray of the flashlight
lanced suddenly through the blackness, darting here and there
over walls and floor.
A smile crept grimly to Jimmie Dale's lips. English Steve
for the moment might not be at home; but he, Jimmie Dale,
or his intuition, or what had seemed perhaps a far-fetched
and is worked swifful, flashlighanother a dim


174 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
if the man were keeping under cover, as seemed more than
probable, since, after hours of search, he, Jimmie Dale, had
been able to find not a single trace of the other, then the
chance that right here was where English Steve might be met
with sooner than anywhere else was not without its logical
argument. And yet-
The flashlight was still circling inquisitively about the
room. Jimmie Dale's eyes followed the ray abstractedly.
It passed across the open doorway of an inner room. There
had been a cot in there, he remembered-English Steve's bed-
room.
Mechanically he moved forward in that direction from the
table; and then suddenly, with a low, sharp cry, as the
flashlight shot forward into the inner room, he halted, hard-
faced, staring ahead of him across the threshold. He had
been right in his theory, doubly right, for the search ended
here; and Mother Margot had been right, and her fears had
been only too well justified! Sprawled across the floor, his
head in a dark, crimson pool, lay the body of English Steve.
For the fraction of a second, no more, Jimmie Dale re-
mained motionless, and then he was across the threshold and
on his knees beside the other. Yes, the man was dead.
Jimmie Dale turned a little then, and the flashlight circled
swiftly in all directions about him. There was no weapon-
only the bullet hole in English Steve's right temple. The
end of the search, the warning that Mother Margot had tried
to give, had come too late. English Steve had been murdered.
So the gang had had their way, had they? It was dirty,
miserable work, crook though English Steve might be!
Jimmie Dale's jaws were clamped now, as he leaned forward
again and drew a paper, already protruding as though it had
half dropped out when the man had fallen, from the inside
pocket of English Steve's coat. It was a folded sheet of
foolscap size. He opened it out, his flashlight playing upon
it. In the folds was a small newspaper clipping; while the
paper itself was covered with a rough design, or plan, as of
some interior.


ENGLISH STEVE
175
He stared in a perplexed way at the clipping for a moment.
It had been cut from the middle of a paragraph, and con-
tained only one complete sentence; but from the sentence
itself, and the fragments of context that preceded and fol-
lowed, it was obviously the report of some jewellery auction.
He read it once—and again:
unusually good value. The pendant was finally knocked down to
Mr. Max Linesthal after spirited bidding for four thousand, three
hundred and eighty-five dollars. A cluster ring set with the
From the clipping Jimmie Dale looked again at the roughly
drawn sketch, then his eyes reverted to the still form on the
floor. A minute, two, passed as he stood there. Something
seemed to tighten in Jimmie Dale's throat.
"Poor devil!” he whispered—and thrust the clipping and
paper abruptly into his own pocket.
He turned away then, and began a rapid search of the two
rooms.
Still another ten minutes passed, and then Jimmie Dale
stepped out into the night again, locked the door behind him,
and, hurrying now, headed back into the East Side.


A DEVIL'S ALIBI
177
The wore he disposant in his posn fact, that M
shook his head impatiently, as though irritated at his own
momentary stupidity. It was nothing of the sort; or, if it
was, then what he had found in English Steve's pocket meant
nothing at all. No robbery of any such nature as that could
be committed without its being known everywhere in the
underworld at least within a short time after the police were
on the scene. Therefore, unless the robbery had been com-
mitted yesterday, or the day before, or a week ago, which it
most certainly had not, since nothing was known of it in the
underworld, the clipping, to have any present significance,
must almost certainly have been cut from a paper of very
recent date, for English Steve would realise that there was
no guarantee, rather the opposite in fact, that Max Linesthal
would keep the pendant in his possession for any length of
time before he disposed of it again.
The whole thing narrowed down then to two suppositions:
English Steve had not yet carried out his plans when he was
shot down, presumably, by the gang; or he had already com-
mitted the robbery just previous to his murder and the
pendant was then, at that time, either in his immediate pos-
session or hidden somewhere, probably in his rooms. But he,
Jimmie Dale, had searched and had found nothing. It might
still be there, still craftily hidden, of course; but if not, and
the robbery had been committed, then the alternative seemed
blatantly obvious. The gang, sworn to English Steve's de-
struction, had found the pendant in their victim's possession,
and taken it—that was all.
Jimmie Dale went on, traversing block after block. And
now a queer, whimsical smile brought a softer expression to
his face. Those papers were damning evidence, and he had
appropriated them without right or reason! He shrugged
his shoulders. Perhaps! It had been impulse. He admitted
that; but it was not an impulse that he regretted, or would
undo now if he could. If it had been only an intended
robbery, one that had not known fruition, there was sorrow
and shame enough for some one-perhaps a mother ; perhaps
an old father; certainly some one who loved even English
Steve-without needlessly adding to a measure already so


A DEVIL'S ALIBI
179
was the vital question. He could not morally side-step it.
The old jeweller lived alone. Had Max Linesthal come to
any harm?
Jimmie Dale's pace slowed now suddenly to one of almost
hesitancy. He was very near the place now; it was just
around the corner. Perhaps it would be safer if, even by
the back door, instead of Smarlinghue, it was Jimmie Dale
who went! But it was quite a little distance from here to
the Sanctuary where through one door Smarlinghue could
enter, and through the French window on the squalid court-
yard, and thence to the lane, Jimmie Dale could emerge.
No! It would take too much time to go to the Sanctuary;
and, besides, it could serve no real purpose. He did not
propose to be seen—or heard. If nothing had happened in
Max Linesthal's place yet, nothing would happen now since
English Steve was dead, and he, Jimmie Dale, would leave
as unostentatiously as he entered; if, on the other hand, the
break had been made, he would leave with equal unos-
tentatiousness and the police in some way, anonymously,
could be notified. Even as Smarlinghue then, well known
as Smarlinghue was in that neighbourhood, he was quite
safe.
He slipped suddenly into the mouth of a lane that opened
beside him. The slouching gait was gone now. He was
running swiftly, silently, in the darkness. There was no
question of locating Max Linesthal's back yard. His
years of Larry the Bat in the old Sanctuary, of Smarl-
inghue in the new, where his life had literally depended upon
it, had taught him every inch of the network of lanes and
alleyways in this section of the East Side.
And now, with a lithe spring Jimmie Dale was over a
fence, and in another instant, running across the yard, was
crouched before a door that opened almost on a level with
the ground. There was no light anywhere. He could hear
no sound-save the distant rumble of the elevated from the
direction of the Bowery. And then the slim, sensitive fingers
of Jimmie Dale, no less deft or agile for the grime and
uncared-for appearance that was theirs as an integral part


A DEVIL'S ALIBI
181
or it was all a myth. A man was kneeling at the safe. He
knew the man; he knew him quite well. He had even been
with him that evening, had even left him not more than half
an hour ago-only he had left the man lying dead upon the
floor of a miserable shack with a bullet hole through his right
temple, and it was the dead man who was kneeling there now
at the safe. The man at the safe was English Steve.
Brain and vision now both seemed blurred. Jimmie Dale
hung there. He was trying to fight his way out of some
mental morass, wasn't he? The man was dead, and he was
lying in a pool of blood miles away, and yet he was here,
moving, yes, and speaking, just as though he were alive.
"Come on, now! Come across !” the man snapped at the
bound figure in the chair. “You know what'll happen if you
don't! You know me, don't you? You've seen me often
enough around these parts."
“Yes, I–I know you.” Max Linesthal was an old man;
and it was perhaps only the cords that held him from col-
lapsing in his chair, for his face was deathlike in its fear.
"You—you're English Steve.”
“Bull's-eye!" snapped the man at the safe again. “Well,
that ought to be enough to teach you what's good for your
health. You get just one minute. Take your choice. If I
have to blow the safe, I might as well set you up against it
for the pad! Get me? Now then, what's the combination?
Quick!" He reached out and gave a sudden, vicious wrench
at the leg of the chair.
"I—I'll tell you," the old man cried out hoarsely. “Wait!
I—I'll tell you. It's twenty-eight and a half left, nine-
teen- ”
Jimmie Dale was not listening. Was he really mad? Yes,
perhaps; but whether the man was dead or not, he was
robbing the safe. And he, Jimmie Dale, could do nothing!
He was Smarlinghue. To interfere with any crook's work
was to bring the enmity of the underworld down upon the
offender. It was the law of the underworld. It would de-
stroy Smarlinghue. Better that Linesthal should lose his
jewels—a thousand times better. Smarlinghue was the one


182 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
chance he, Jimmie Dale, had to find the Phantom, the one
chance he had to stand between the woman that he loved
and the death that threatened her. With the doors of the
underworld once closed against Smarlinghue, there was
no
Slowly, as though the act were almost subconscious, his
hand crept now toward his pocket, crept into it, snuggled
around the butt of his automatic, and, snuggling, tightened
suddenly in a fierce, convulsive grip. The safe was open
now, and the man kneeling there had his back to Linesthal
in the chair, his side face to the door. He was ransacking
the interior of the safe. Books and papers were being flung
on the floor. A diamond pendant glistened in the light. It
was laid on the table beside the safe. There were other
jewels. They began to make a glittering little heap. But it
was curious, strangely curious that the heavy black moustache
should suddenly have seemed to sag down at one side;
strange that the man should be taking the time now to pause
in his work to twirl at it like some sophisticated dandy! No-
it was off! And now the man was carefully readjusting it.
Through Jimmie Dale's veins, as though some floodgates
were suddenly rent asunder, his blood was racing now in a
wild, mad, surging tide. Laroque! It was Gentleman
Laroque, alias the Phantom! The master of impersonation!
Yes, he understood now! There was no madness in his
brain. He understood! It was hellish in its cunning-a
devil's alibi. The Phantom, if he were not entirely playing a
lone hand through lack of trust in his erstwhile tools and
pawns, was at least playing the major rôle. A safe rôle!
His alibi was a dead man! .
Swift as lightning flashes Jimmie Dale's mind worked now.
Yes, he understood. It was the Phantom, not the gang, who
had murdered English Steve. It was the Phantom, not Eng-
lish Steve, who had taken that clipping from the paper, made
that sketch, and placed them in the dead man's pocket. Max
Linesthal would be robbed, and would swear that it was
English Steve—the Phantom had but a moment gone taken
care to make doubly sure of that point-then English Steve
His wift as lightning flashwas the Phantom, Phantom, not Eng.


A DEVIL'S ALIBI
183
would be found murdered; the police would attribute the
murder without an instant's hesitation to the gang who had
boasted everywhere that they would take English Steve's life;
and to the gang, too, having failed to find the jewels else-
where, would be attributed, even as he, Jimmie Dale, had
thought might be the case, the possession of the proceeds of
the robbery from Max Linesthal's safe. That was why the
robbery was being pulled here now in so open and bare-faced
a manner, intentionally so, as part of the plan, an integral,
vital part of the plan—to establish the alibi that English Steve
could never now refute!
The room seemed to swim before Jimmie Dale's eyes-
red. Smarlinghue! What did it matter now if Smarlinghue
were seen, if Smarlinghue lived or died, so that this inhuman
fiend found his end too at the same time! That was what
Smarlinghue existed for—the final reckoning—the end. And
it was here now. There was the man he had sought through
days and nights of ceaseless, torturing effort. The Phantom!
Primal, elemental, his soul itself seemed stripped of all else
but a blind, savage-
What was that? The doorbell, wasn't it? The doorbell
in two quick, short rings! Jimmie Dale, about to step for-
ward into the other room, his automatic already flung for-
ward, instinctively held motionless for an instant-and in
that instant he saw the Phantom leap to his feet, and whirl
to the electric-light switch just beside the safe. There was a
click. The house was in utter blackness..
But Jimmie Dale was in action now. A signal, of course,
those two rings! Why? From whom? But it didn't mat-
ter now. Nothing mattered save to come to grips with the
Phantom in there. It was pitch black, but he knew what the
other's next move would be as well as though the room were
still alight.
With a bound, Jimmie Dale was through the doorway and
into the room. The table—those jewels! They were what
the Phantom had come here for-and signal or no signal, be
its meaning what it might, the Phantom would not leave
without them if he could help it.


184 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Jimmie Dale brought up against the table with a crash.
His hand swept swiftly across its top, and as he brushed the
jewels to the floor, to safety, a hand, groping it seemed,
touched his—and was instantly drawn away before he could
grasp it.
A snarl came out of the darkness on the other side of the
table. A cry of terror rang out from the old man lashed in
the chair. And then a blinding flash, the roar of a revolver
shot, as the Phantom fired-and missed.
And Jimmie Dale laughed now, laughed with the tongue
flame of the shot still hot upon his cheek, and, hurling the
table out of the way, he flung himself forward again. He
could not see. He could only spring straight for the spot
where the shot had come from. He could not fire in return-
he might hit the old man in the chair.
His fingers closed, gripped at a sleeve, tightened, and his
other hand, with clubbed automatic, swung upward in a
fierce, short-arm jab. And his soul cried out in joy as he
felt the blow go home.
There was a sharp cry of pain; then a sudden, furious
wrench that tore the sleeve from Jimmie Dale's grasp-and
then the sound, deadened now, almost lost in Max Linesthal's
terrified cries, of a step racing across the floor.
Jimmie Dale's jaws clamped hard together. To use his
flashlight was to offer himself as a target that would not be
missed a second time. But the man was making for the
door, of course. Jimmie Dale leaped back in the darkness
across the room—too late! The door slammed. He heard
it locked. He heard the footsteps racing down the little
hallway toward the back entrance.
But if there was no time to unlock this one, there was still
another door—the connecting door from this room into the
next, and from there into the hall. His flashlight now! It
gleamed as he wrenched it from his pocket and ran to the
connecting door. Was this, too, locked! Strange, those
scattered jewels on the floor; that uncouth creature in a
nightgown lashed in a chair and screaming in fright! He
wrenched again at the door. No, it was not locked; but it


A DEVIL'S ALIBI
185
was badly warped, and it stuck. His shoulder, all his body
weight, went against it. It gave now, almost bursting from
its hinges.
Jimmie Dale lunged through. It had cost him time; time
enough, he was afraid, to allow the Phantom to get away
across the yard, and Yes! He had gained the rear
door himself now. No one was in sight. But it was dark,
damnably dark, and What was that noise? It seemed
to be a commotion of some sort going on in the street out
in front of the house. The neighbours must have heard the
old jeweller's screams. He was still screaming. Well, it
didn't matter what it was! There was still a chance. The
Phantom could not yet be very far away, and he must have
gone by the lane.
Jimmie Dale was running now. In an instant he had
crossed the yard; and then, as he poised to swing himself
over the fence, he drew suddenly back instead, and crouched
down in the shadows. Some one was climbing over the
fence from the lane not ten yards away from where he stood.
A voice, muffled, gruff, reached him:
“Look out for that damned nail, sergeant!”
The police! A form, silhouetted against the night, showed
on the top of the fence for a moment, then dropped to the
ground. It was followed by another. Jimmie Dale crouched
closer in against the fence in the shadows. He gnawed his
lip now in bitter chagrin. He was not afraid of being dis-
covered, it was far too dark for that; but he knew that with
this further delay any hope of finding the Phantom again
was definitely at an end.
The two men were joined by a third. They crossed the
yard, and disappeared inside the house.
Cautiously now, Jimmie Dale moved farther on along the
side of the fence away from the house. With the Phantom
gone, it became purely a question of self-preservation now.
Smarlinghue found here by the police and subjected to a
search, held perhaps until the make-up, worn off in a police
cell, disclosed Jimmie Dale, was but little more pleasant to


A DEVIL'S ALIBI
187
the lieutenant, his mouth was agape, breathless with interest,
in a sort of senile way.
He caught the lieutenant's quick flung question to the
officer at the door:
“Did you get him, Lynch ?"
"No, sir," the man answered.
"You didn't! How's that? That woman, whoever she
was, handed us a fake tip over the phone, then?” :
Smarlinghue's ragged form edged still closer to the two
officers, as though his curiosity were now beyond the bounds
of restraint, as though he were not only utterly oblivious to,
but quite innocent of the impropriety of standing there with
blear, blinking eyes and gaping mouth, greedily drinking in
a conversation by no means intended for his ears. The
woman, whoever she was! It was the Tocsin, then, who
had sent the warning to the police. It couldn't have been
any one else.
"No, sir," the man addressed as Lynch answered. “It was
straight enough, only there was an outside worker on the job,
I guess. Anyway, just as we got to the corner over there and
started to cross the street, a man ran up to Linesthal's door
here, and then beat it like blazes down the street, and got
away.”
"Did you get a look at him? Know who he was?”
“We aren't sure,” Lynch replied. “But O'Grady said he
thought it looked like the Kitten.”
The Kitten! Jimmie Dale was fumbling with his battered
hat. The crowd, as it jostled, had suddenly pushed him none
too gently against the police lieutenant's elbow.
Lieutenant Klinger swung sharply around.
"Send this damned mob about their business !” he snapped
at the policeman. “And maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to
run in one or two of them while you're at it. Some of 'em
look as though they were due for it!" He stared suddenly
into Jimmie Dale's face. "You, eh, Smarlinghue? Hop-
fighting, I suppose! What the hell are you doing around
here?”


188 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
"Me?” Smarlinghue circled his lips with his tongue. "I-
I ain't doing nothing," he mumbled—and shrinking back
through the crowd, and casting furtive glances over his
shoulder in the direction of the police lieutenant while the
crowd laughed, Smarlinghue scurried hurriedly down the
street.


— XVIII -
THE VOICE
TT was like the glow of a firefly. It flitted here and there,
lancing its tiny stabs of light indefatigably through
- the darkness. From somewhere without, in the distance,
muffled, there came faintly the rumbling of wheels, the clatter
of a horse's hoofs on the pavement. There was no other
sound.
Jimmie Dale rose from his hands and knees, and, with
the diminutive flashlight switched off now, stood staring
around him in the darkness. Under the black silk mask his
forehead furrowed. This was one of Mother Margot's
rooms—the room from which the Phantom had so mysteri-
ously disappeared on that first night. He had searched here
before—more than once-in an effort to discover the secret
of the Phantom's disappearance. But he had never found
anything. To-night, because he had never been satisfied with
his previous efforts, and because he had now been afforded
a better opportunity of searching the place than ever before,
he had returned to it again. He had been at it for two hours
now. And still he had found nothing.
Both Mother Margot and the Tocsin had warned him to
beware of the place—that it was a trap. Both had warned
him that the Phantom asked nothing better than to lure him
here. He shook his head. That might well have been true
of a month ago, when, in the guise of Isaac Shiftel, alias
Gentleman Laroque, the Phantom's unaccountable disap-
pearance from this room before his, Jimmie Dale's, eyes,
might naturally have been relied upon to bring him back
without loss of time in the hope of getting at the bottom
of the mystery. But not to-day. It was too long ago now.
189


190 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
If, as a trap, it had not proved effective almost immediately
after it was baited, the Phantom, from the standpoint of pure
logic, must long since have given over any hope of it ever
proving effective as a trap at all.
Jimmie Dale smiled grimly. He had, in spite of warnings,
invaded the place almost immediately after that night-and
he had not been able to find even a trap, let alone the secret of
the Phantom's disappearance! Nor was Mother Margot in
the secret. He was convinced of that. True, she had been
installed here by the Phantom when the latter had been forced
to vacate the premises after the police raid, and she had obvi-
ously been installed here for the purpose of keeping any
stranger from renting the rooms, and therefore, by her occu-
pancy, of safeguarding that secret for the Phantom, but of
its nature he was sure she was ignorant. He doubted, indeed,
if the Phantom trusted any one to that extent!
But, in any case, Mother Margot was away to-night. And
so to-night's conditions offered him the opportunity for a
search that, prolong it as he chose, was almost guaranteed
against any interruption, or, as he felt confident now, any
risk of the place proving a trap. Mother Margot was away.
He did not know where she was. It did not matter. Pre-
sumably there was devil's work afoot again to-night, and she
was engaged in her share of it. He only knew that for the
first time since she had succeeded the Phantom as the tenant
of these rooms, she had absented herself from her usual
haunts. As Smarlinghue, who at her request had haunted
the dens and dives of the underworld for one English Steve
last night, he had been free, without risk of bringing any
suspicion upon the character of “Smarlinghue," to seek her
out openly at her pushcart—which covered her real activities
-on Thompson Street that morning. But she had not been
there. She had, however, in view of what had transpired
the previous night, obviously expected him, for he had found
a message waiting for him with an old Italian who had his
cart next to hers.
"You Smarly?” the old Italian had said. "Margot go
away one, two day—come back."
of theme since her shal's work
the dens and had been tres: of "Smarling


192 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
he
see nothing. Nor was there any further sound. A minute
passed. Was it a minute-or some vast, immeasurable æon
of time? He stood rigid, motionless—waiting.
“Where?” said a voice abruptly.
Jimmie Dale turned his head; his automatic swung swiftly.
The voice seemed to have come almost from his elbow.
Then his jaws locked hard together. No; it was not from
there! They were playing with him, were they? A cat-and-
mouse game! Well then, he-
A voice spoke again:
"Worth anywhere from thirty to fifty thousand. Easy
money."
Jimmie Dale pushed back his hat, and above his mask
flirted away a bead of sweat from his forehead. He under-
stood now. There wasn't any one in the room save himself.
It wasn't a trap. It was only uncanny. He was simply lis-
tening to snatches of a conversation that came from the
nowhere, out of the darkness.
He leaned forward a little, striving to the utmost to place
the direction of the sounds. The voices, he realised now,
while quite distinct, had been curiously heavy and uneven.
He nodded sharply to himself. A pipe, a hollow space, almost
anything might act as a conductor for the sound waves, and
bring them here from no little distance at that!
Once more a voice broke through the stillness :
“Easy money, yes; but old Twisty Munn's no fool, and
neither is Kid Gregg. The stuff will be pinched by now, but
we've plenty of time left-enough to see that there are no
mistakes made.”
Again there came the low, ugly laugh.
“There won't be any! One o'clock at Twisty's "
The voice ended as abruptly as though, if speaking over a
telephone, the wire had been suddenly cut. There seemed to
Jimmie Dale no other way to describe it. He stared around
him in a queer, helpless way. Now the voices had seemed to
come from here, now from there. His lips twisted in grim
self-mockery. The longer he had listened the more confus-


THE VOICE
193
ing it had become. The voices simply came from everywhere
in the room.
Had they ended now?
The tiny glow of the flashlight played for an instant on the
crystal of his watch. It was fourteen minutes past twelve.
Noiselessly now Jimmie Dale moved across the room to a
chair. The sort of finality with which that last sentence had
been broken off held out little hope, he felt intuitively, of his
hearing anything more. But there was a chance. He sat
down quietly. Strange! Where had the voices come from?
From below, above—where? He did not know. He knew
only that one of those voices must be the Phantom's. It did
not require proof. It was axiomatic. He could not locate
the direction from which the voices had come, but the open-
ing through which the Phantom had once vanished from this
room was obviously the medium through which the voices
entered. How cleverly deduced! He snapped at himself
mentally. The only trouble was that after prolonged and
laborious search he had not been able to locate that opening
either!
His fingers played softly in a curiously caressing way over
his automatic. It hadn't been any trap. The allusion to the
Gray Seal that had so startled him had been only a snatch
of the conversation which had at first, through some cause
or other that he was unable to define, reached him only in
broken fragments. Or perhaps, after all, it was a trap—the
other way around. A trap for the trapper! If he could
not locate the voices here, it might not possibly be so difficult
to do so at, say, one Twisty Munn's—at one o'clock!
He sat there in the darkness listening, his mind at work.
One of the voices had been the Phantom's, that was beyond
question or doubt; but which one of the two it was he did
not know. He could, he was certain, have recognised Gen-
tleman Laroque's, alias the Phantom's, voice anywhere under
ordinary circumstances, but here, due unquestionably to the
mysterious way in which the sound waves had been trans-
mitted, all sense of inflexion had been lost. Nor did the
conversation itself, as he went over it again in his mind, help


196 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
had chosen. In a word, neither of them had ever had any
dealings or were in any way connected with Gentleman
Laroque's, alias the Phantom's gang.
Jimmie Dale's dark eyes narrowed grimly as he went
along. The conclusion was somewhat obvious. The Phan-
tom was by no means averse to plucking the plums ripened
by some one else, and it was fairly evident that in some way
or another he had got wind of one that had been ripened by
Twisty Munn and Kid Gregg. It looked very much therefore
as though the night were likely to develop into a three-cor-
nered game, counting in himself, Jimmie Dale, with the added
possibility that the trumps perhaps might be in the hand that
neither Twisty Munn nor Kid Gregg in the first place, nor
the Phantom in the second, suspected!
Jimmie Dale covered block after block at a swinging
stride. His mind reverted to Mother Margot's rooms. It
was strange where those voices had come from! He could
not tear the building down to find out. He had already
known there was a secret exit from that room. The voices
in that respect had not proved anything further. His mind
mulled on. A search of the rooms adjacent to Mother
Margot's offered no prospect of help in the solution of the
problem. If the room itself, where he knew the secret exit
to be, was so apparently search proof, what better chance
would any other room offer? Or why, as a matter of fact,
should the secret exit even lead into any other room? Well,
the cellar then, for the Phantom could not have gone up
through the roof! There was no cellar! The ground floor
was a sort oleh
was a sort of basement in itself! Those voices
Cycles! He was beginning all over again. He shook his
head in self-exasperation, and with a mental effort dis-
missed these thoughts from his mind. He had almost reached
his destination, and the immediate present demanded his full
attention.
Under a street lamp he looked at his watch. Twelve min-
utes to one. He nodded. He was well on time. Just ahead
of him was the three-story tenement where Twisty Munn
made his home.


- XIX
JACKALS
THE street was deserted. The tenement itself was dark.
Not a light showed from any window. But Twisty
1 Munn lived in an upstairs room at the rear, therefore
the fact that no light could be seen from the street had no
bearing whatever on Twisty Munn.
Jimmie Dale stepped suddenly into the doorway. The
door itself, the entrance common to heaven alone knew how
many who hived in wretchedness and squalor within, and to
whom a latchkey would have been not far removed from
mockery, was unlocked as he had expected. He moved
noiselessly into the hall. The place was close and dank to
the nostrils; also it reeked with the odour of garlic. It was
dark, too; but through the murk he could just make out the
stairs ahead of him and to the left.
There was a curious tightening of Jimmie Dale's lips as
he moved forward and tested the tread of the first stair cau-
tiously. Yes, he knew the breed! Old and in disrepair, the
stairs would certainly shriek their protest to high heaven
if any liberty were taken with them. But it was Jimmie
Dale of the old days, Jimmie Dale of the days of Larry the
Bat and the rickety stairs of the old Sanctuary, worse even
than these stairs were, where his life had literally depended
upon his silence a score of times, as he went upward now.
He gained the first landing. There were doors around him
here, and, because they were flimsy doors and flimsy par-
titions, from behind them the night sounds reached him—the
restless movement of a sleeper, the sick, querulous cry of a
child, a stertorous snore.
Twelve minutes of one! Ten now, wasn't it?
197


198 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
There were three flights. At the third landing Jimmie
Dale paused for an instant to adjust the black silk mask over
his face again, then stole forward, feeling out with his hand
along the wall, toward a thin, irregular thread of light that
seeped out from under the ill-fitting threshold of a door at
the rear end of the hall. Twisty Munn, at least, was evi-
dently keeping the rendezvous !
Faintly, no more than a murmur, voices reached Jimmie
Dale from the other side of the door now as he stood before
it. And now a pick-lock in his hand was silently at work.
Perhaps half a minute passed. Then, by the barest fraction
of an inch at a time, the doorknob turned without sound
under the slim, trained, sensitive fingers, and the door opened
by a crack. The murmur from within became distinct, dis-
integrated itself into words and sentences.
"... Sure, de goods is all right, but wot about de rest
of it? De guys I have to slip dese over to ain't takin'
chances, not if youse handed 'em de stuff for nothin' an'
paid 'em for takin' it.”
The door opened another crack. Twisty Munn and Kid
Gregg! Yes, that was what the voice in Mother Margot's
room had said. Jimmie Dale could just see the two. They
were at a table in the upper corner of the room. His eyes
narrowed. There was what looked like a small fortune in
the shape of jewellery on the table between them. Twisty
Munn! The stoop-shouldered, almost hunch-backed form
of the shabby old man was bent forward over the table, while
his thin, hooked fingers clawed at the jewels, picking up one
after the other to hold it close to short-sighted, squinting
eyes. And opposite him Kid Gregg, young, in an over-loud
checked suit, a peaked cap pulled so low over his forehead
as almost to hide the small, roving black eyes, scowled in
evident impatience.
"Aw, it's sewed up-tight!" the latter snapped. "Ain't I
told youse dat?"
"Sure, youse told me dat,” agreed the old man sharply.
“Two days ago youse told me youse had it all fixed for to
night, an' dat everythin' was safe, an' dat youse'd bring me


JACKALS
199
ide de serie was kepen beforeAh, say,
de sparklers. Well, dat's all right, youse've brought 'em,
an' dey're all right; but I ain't heard yet how safe dey are,
an' dat's wot puts de deal across wid de crowd I works for.
See?"
A cigarette dangled from Kid Gregg's upper lip. With
the tip of his tongue he deftly transferred it to the corner of
his mouth.
"Well, den, listen !” he grinned complacently. “Some job,
Twisty; an' all me own-see? I used to know a guy dat
worked for old Froomes up on de Avenue, an' he was for-
ever shootin' off his face about de sparklers de family wore.
Well, a month ago I gets a job dere myself-taken on regu-
lar. Get me? Polishin' de hardwood floors, an' keepin'de
windows of de mansion washed. Ah, say, it was soft! 1
hadn't been dere a week before I knew where de combina-
tion of de safe was kept in a drawer in de library right along-
side de safe itself—so's Mrs. Froomes wouldn't have to walk
far to get it !"
Kid Gregg chuckled, and sucking at his cigarette only to
find it out, began to search through his pockets for a match.
Jimmie Dale stared. Froomes! It was Martin K.
Froomes, of course, the retired broker. He knew Froomes
very well indeed, and on several “stag” occasions had been
in Froomes' house; and Froomes knew him—as Jimmie Dale,
a fellow member of the St. James Club. So that was where
that haul of jewellery on the table there had come from!
What was it the voice in Mother Margot's room had said ?
-"anywhere from thirty to fifty thousand.” He could well
believe it. Froomes was an exceedingly wealthy man, and,
besides a wife, had two daughters who moved constantly in
society.
“Go on!" prompted Twisty Munn impatiendly.
"Watch me!” boasted Kid Gregg. "I could have made de
pinch anytime, but den I'd have had to make me get-away,
an' duck outer little old New York. I wasn't for dat—not
some! I've still got me job polishin' de floors, an' to-morrow
mornin' I'll be polishin' 'em de same as though nothin' had
happened. See? Some day de bulls may write up me auto-


200 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
beeography an' keep me photograph handy to look at w'en
dey wants to see somethin' handsome—but not if I sees 'em
first! Nix on dat stuff! So far I'm a nice, quiet, hard-
working young man. Get me? Well, dere ain't no hurry, an'
I sits tight, keepin' me lamps open lookin' for goats. An' I
don't have to wait long, neither. One day I was out on a
window sill washin' de window, an' I hears de boss in de
next room handin' out a Sunday school spiel like he was
talkin' to a naughty son. 'From a business standpoint,' says
de old man, 'dis has nearly lost youse yer job here, an' no
man ever made anythin' out of himself on that basis. An'
from a moral standpoint,' he says, 'it's simply de road dat
leads from bad to worse.'”
Jimmie Dale, an ominous droop at the corners of his
mouth, dared another half inch of door space, as Kid Gregg
paused for a moment to drag on his cigarette. Was there a
wall switch for that single, dangling incandescent that lighted
the room? Yes, there it was—just inside the door. He
could almost have reached in and touched it from where he
stood,
"Well, dat's all I heard,” went on Kid Gregg ; "but, take
it from me, I watches to see who comes outer dat room.
Say, can youse beat it! It's a little red-headed dude named
Culver, dat's a typewriter, or secretary, or somethin' like dat
to de boss. After dat, dere's nothin' to it. Culver's de bird
I'm after, an' I gets his number for fair. Some high-roller
wid his dinkey shirts an' his imitation diamond shirt studs !
He don't live dere wid de boss, y'understand, but he dresses
up every night like he owned a bank, an' hits de high spots
on de first speed. Youse knows de kind, don't youse?”
Twisty Munn was twining the long, bony fingers of his
hands in and out of the heap of brooches, pins, rings and
pendants in front of him, seemingly fascinated by the fiery
little gleams of light that he made to flash from their count-
less facets.
"Up de river,” observed Twisty Munn, “dere's a whole
cageful of dem birds dat dress up all de time-only dey don't
Ts an' himber for to it. somethi
icht like he owned ws de kind, dontingers of his


JACKALS
201
sport de shirt studs any more. I get youse! Wot did youse
do wid Mister Culver ?”
Kid Gregg indulged in a fresh cigarette. There was a
smirk of unabashed conceit upon his face, as he blew a smoke
ring in the air.
"Him? He's down at Hoy Loo's.”
Twisty Munn leaned suddenly across the table.
"Wot's dat?” he demanded tensely. “Hoy Loo's?"
“Youse said it!” nodded Kig Gregg complacently. “He's
gone bye-bye down at Hoy Loo's wid a nice little pipe of
coke laid out beside de bunk.”
Twisty Munn squinted blear eyes at the other.
"I don't get youse!” he grunted after a moment. “Dat
don't stick nothin' on him. I don't get youse!"
Kid Gregg smiled pityingly.
“Dat's why youse won't never be nothin' more dan youse
are to-day, Twisty," he murmured; “just runnin' around an'
doin' de dirty work. It's de bean dat counts.”
“Youse close yer face!" snapped Twisty Munn. “Go on,
an' spill de rest of it.”
"All right,” grinned Kid Gregg. "I fixed it up for to-
night, after I'd tipped off another guy I knows to make up
wid Culver about a week ago. Me pal plays de game.
Savvy? He chums up wid Culver, an' promises to show
Culver some of de real goods around town. Youse gets it
now, don't youse? To-night de two of dem goes to Hoy
Loo's, an' dey starts in wid a drink, an' Culver gets a pill
slipped into his, an’den he's laid out peaceful on a bunk
just as though he'd got stewed on too many pipes. Soft,
eh? He'll be dere to-morrow mornin'. He don't know who
me pal is because somehow me pal ain't got a good memory
even for his own name; an' besides, bein' dolled up for de
occasion wid a little waxed moustache an' a cute little beard,
youse'd have taken him for a French Count—which he ain't.
Well, de bulls get Mister Culver dere in de mornin'-an' Hoy
Loo gets a piece of de money youse're goin' to hand out
'cause he's got to stand for a police fine."
Kid Gregg paused and grinned at Twisty Munn, as the


202 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
latter puckered the leathery skin of his forehead into wrin-
kles.
"Never mind about de bean stuff dis time," said Twisty
Munn gruffly. “I ain't wise yet, but I'll say it begins to
listen good. How'd youse hang it onto him ?”
“De easiest thing youse know," said the Kid cheerfully.
“A letter-dat's wot. Dere's a letter in de mail now dat
de police gets in de mornin', just about de same time dat de
family on de Avenue wakes up an' t'rows a fit w’en dey finds
de safe open an' de sparklers gone. De letter just says dat
mabbe de police'd like to know dat a guy blew into Hoy
Foo's to-night, an' got stewed to de eyes hittin' de pipe, an'
got frisked of a bagful of rings an' jewels an' stuff by some
yeggs dat was floatin' around dere. An' it's signed: 'A
Friend.' I guess dat's all to de mustard, ain't it? Dat takes
care of de missin' goods! De bulls slip over dere, an' dey
finds it's me red-headed friend Culver, de typewriter expert
for Mr. Froomes dat owns de safe dat's been cracked.”
Twisty Munn blinked.
“Dat's all right,” he said judicially; "but it don't actually
prove he pulled de job. If he was frisked, which he wasn't,
den "
"Sure, he was frisked !” said Kid Gregg with a vicious
grin. “All dis happened before I went up to de nabob's
house an hour ago. Dat was midnight, y’understand, an'
de Froomes bunch was all in bed. I wasn't takin' no
chances. He was frisked, all right!" The Kid with studied
effect blew another smoke ring in the air. “I frisked him-
of one of dose near-diamond shirt studs of his dat youse
can buy from de hawkers at three for a nickel !"
Enlightenment was dawning on Twisty Munn's wily coun-
tenance.
"Say dat again!” he whispered hoarsely.
"Sure!” said Kid Gregg. “Dat's wot! D’youse know
of anythin' dat's easier to lose widout youse bein' wise to it
dan a shirt stud dat falls out w'en youse're pawin' over de
stuff in a safe youse've cracked ? Dat's where it is now-on


JACKALS
203
de floor up dere in de Froomes' library under some papers
dat was yanked out of de safe.”
For a moment Twisty Munn stared at his companion, then
his long, bony hand shot out across the table.
"Youse'll go a long way, Kid! Shake!” he cackled ad-
miringly. “Take it from me, youse will—a long way!"
"Youse bet yer life-an' nothin' but dust behind me!"
agreed Kid Gregg boastfully. “Youse said somethin',
Twisty!"
“S'help me!" gulped Twisty Munn. His fingers clawed
the jewels on the table again. "As sweet a haul as ever I've
seen, an open an' shut-open an' shut!” He pushed the
heap suddenly toward Kid Gregg. "Put 'em back in dat little
sack,” he gloated. “I'll take 'em, Kid-dere's big money in
dis all round.”
Under his mask a dull red had suffused Jimmie Dale's
cheeks; subconsciously almost his hand had crept into his
pocket, and his fingers had closed around the stock of his
automatic. It was brutal work; miserable, inhuman work.
A shirt stud, three for a nickel--and five, ten, fifteen years,
the best of a man's life, behind the drear walls and the steel
bars of Sing Sing. Was it possible that men like these two
lived, festering God's green earth! His automatic came
from his pocket. They were stuffing the jewels into a small
canvas bag now. Well, the game wasn't finished yet; there
was still another hand to play! The little sack would prove
a convenient receptacle. It ought not to take but a moment
more before all the jewels were inside, and-
Jimmie Dale drew suddenly back from the doorway. Had
he forgotten? In the natural sweep of anger, in the hot-
blooded fury that the scene in there had brought him, had he
forgotten—those voices in Mother Margot's rooms! What
was that now? A creak upon the stairs? Yes, he was sure
of it! Another! One o'clock! It must be after one o'clock.
Some one was coming!
Every faculty alert, he crouched back now-farther back,
away from the door, where he was lost in the darkness of the
hall. Yes, there was some one almost at the head of the


204 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
irs in a while a ja naudible insidGregg were.
stairs now, coming stealthily, almost without sound-only
once in a while a faint, protesting squeak from a stair tread
that would not be audible inside Twisty Munn's room.
Those jewels, Twisty Munn, Kid Gregg were the lesser issue
now. It was the Phantom who had brought him here, the
hope that the Phantom would come himself in person.
Tense, silent, Jimmie Dale crouched there. The Phan-
tom! If it were the Phantom in any one of the characters
that he, Jimmie Dale, could recognise, there would be no
failure this time such as there had been last night! Who-
ever passed from the hall into that room would stand out, if
only for an instant, clearly defined in the lighted doorway-
and an instant would be enough!
A second passed-still another. A dark form bulked at
the head of the stairs. It was joined by another. Two of
them, then! And now there was no sound—yet the two
dark forms there moved. They came on down the hall like
queer, wavering, intangible shapes that seemed almost like
brain hallucinations in the darkness.
Outflung before him, Jimmie Dale's automatic held a bead
on the doorway. They had stopped there now, stopped in
that thin crack of light that seeped out through the inch of
open door that he himself had left. And the face of one
came into the light. Bunty Myers! It was not the Phan-
tom; it was Bunty Myers, the Phantom's unholy chief-of-
staff! But both of the men could not be the Phantom. The
other! Who was the other?
A whisper came. A revolver barrel glinted in the light-
thread. Jimmie Dale strained forward. The other! Just
a glimpse of the man's face! There could be no disguise
that would blind his eyes to Gentleman Laroque, the real
man, any longer; no disguise however clever that could —
The door crashed inward, a wave of light flooded out into
the hall, and the two forms at the door leaped forward into
the room. But, for the single instant Jimmie Dale had
asked, the light had shone on the second man's face-and
upon Jimmie Dale there surged a sense of bitter disap-
pointment that seemed to engulf him, seemed to hold him


206 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
electric-light switch, and the room was in darkness. And
the next instant he had flung himself forward across the
room. The little canvas bag! He had marked the exact spot
on the floor where it had fallen from the table. Queer, this
scuffling of feet around him; savage oaths; snarls of confu-
sion; doors opening somewhere below in the tenement; the
creak of stairs, and— Yes, here it was! His hand closed
upon the bag and thrust it into his pocket. He turned and
sprang for the doorway again. Something blocked his way,
struck at him viciously, clutched at his clothing. He struck
back with a short-arm jab, tore himself free, and lunged
forward again.
A revolver flash lanced through the blackness behind him
—another. Twisty Munn still screamed in terror. And
a bedlam seemed loosed now throughout the tenement.
But Jimmie Dale had gained the door.
He slammed it shut behind him, and, springing for the
stairs, took them three and four at a jump. A man holding
a candle, peering upward from the landing below, blocked
his way for an instant—and went down before Jimmie Dale's
rush.
Two more flights to go! Doors opened. Frightened faces
were thrust out. There came the cries of children—and then
from above the pound of feet, racing as madly as his own
down the upper stairs.
Jimmie Dale laughed strangely to himself. That would
be Bunty Myers and the Kitten, but they mattered nothing
now. There had been murder above, Kid Gregg was dead,
and their one concern would be to hunt cover without loss
of time, because if they were known to Twisty Munn they
were in desperate case indeed!
He was not concerned with any pursuit from Bunty Myers
or the Kitten. It was a question only of what margin he
himself had before the uproar here would have brought the
police upon the scene. It was the shouts and yells that pur-
sued him from the awakened and terrified occupants of the
tenement wherein lay his real source of danger.


JACKALS
207
A minute! That was all he asked. The margin of a
minute! He risked a leap of almost half the length of the
lower stairs, stumbled at the bottom, recovered himself,
jumped for the front door, wrenched it open and dashed out.
The street was still empty. Thank God! He ran like a
deer for the corner, gained it, doubled at the next one, and
then dropped into an nonchalant walk.


- XX-
AT A QUARTER TO THREE
TE was safe now. He laughed shortly, without mirth.
Safe! Yes, for the moment—but the night wasn't
ended yet. He laboured under no delusions on that
score. The rendezvous at Twisty's, instead of the hoped-
for meeting with the Phantom, had left him with the heri-
tage of a little canvas bag whose physical contents became
but a handful of miserable, worthless baubles compared with
the potentialities it held for a long-term penitentiary sen-
tence for an innocent man. Nothing that had transpired at
Twisty Munn's had changed by one iota the vile, low, cun-
ning trap that Kid Gregg had laid for his victim—and had
now paid for with his own life. The police would receive
the letter; the police would find that shirt stud at the scene
of the robbery, find this young fool Culver at Hoy Loo's,
and find in Culver's shirt that a stud was missing from
amongst its fellows.
Jimmie Dale's face darkened now, as he turned at the next
street and headed over in the direction of the Bowery,
Young fool! Yes, that was it! Why should he take any
further risk? He did not know Culver. He knew nothing
about Culver except that he had a red head, and was evi-
dently somewhat of a bounder who probably very richly
deserved what- No; he knew more than that. He knew
that Culver was innocent.
And then a smile came to Jimmie Dale's lips, a half whim-
sical, half troubled smile. Yes, of course! It was inevitable !
He knew that. He had known it all along. Why else had
he taken the risk of snatching up that little bag in Twisty
Munn's room? Well, then?
208
amonamie Dale's ta over in the? Why sholle knew no
sice knew the risk peli, thens 208


AT A QUARTER TO THREE
209
of the letter thaa the boy thereat most o
Hoy Loo's? He shook his head. He would find nothing
there but a limp, red-headed boy, drugged into unconscious-
ness. He could do nothing with Culver; for, even if he
managed to get Culver out of and away from the dope joint,
there still remained the one outstanding, damning piece of
evidence in the shape of that shirt stud in the library of the
Froomes' home. Neither would Culver's removal from Hoy
Loo's offset the letter that the police would receive simply
because they did not find the boy there, for they would find
that Culver had been there, had spent most of the night
there. Equally, there were no means of intercepting that
letter.
There was only one alternative. Jimmie Dale shrugged
his shoulders, and again the whimsical smile broke across his
lips. It was perhaps a fortunate thing for Culver that he,
Jimmie Dale, was not red-headed too!
He hurried on now, breaking at times almost into a run.
There was only one way, and—yes—he saw that way clearly
enough now. It remained merely a question of whether by
any chance the robbery at the Froomes' mansion would be
discovered before he could act. It was not likely, since Kid
Gregg had said the household had all retired by midnight;
but it nevertheless left the matter of time an unknown factor
whose latent possibilities were by no means to be ignored.
Well, he would lose no time!
Near the Bowery, in an all-night café, he entered the tele-
phone booth. He gave the number of his residence on River-
side Drive, and as he waited for the connection into his dark
eyes, strangely, there crept a softer light. Old Jason would
answer the phone. Faithful old Jason, butler to the father,
more than butler to the son! Despite injunctions, despite
the nights, many and many of them, when he, Jimmie Dale,
did not return at all, Jason would even now probably be
maintaining his self-appointed vigil in the arm-chair in the
vestibule waiting for his Master Jim—and almost certainly
asleep! Jason was an old man, and nature was stronger
than the flesh. Well, it was Jason's way, a rather splendid
way, a way of great devotion. Strange? No—not strange!


210 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Tello?" the safe, so that perhaps
It was just Jason. Jason knew perhaps too little or too
much; enough, in any case, so that the old man lived in con-
stant anxiety anent the safety of his Master Jim, and-
"Yes! Hello! That you, Jason?” said Jimmie Dale
quickly.
"Yes, sir—Master Jim, sir," the old man answered.
“Listen, Jason!” said Jimmie Dale. “Rouse up Benson,
and send him down here with the light car as fast as he can
make it. Tell him the Palace—he knows where that is."
“Yes, sir ; at once,” Jason replied; and then, a curious hesi-
tancy, a curious yearning, in his voice: “Is there any—any-
thing else, Master Jim, sir?”
"Yes !” said Jimmie Dale sharply. “You've been sitting
up again, Jason!" Jimmie Dale's smile belied the severity
of his tone. How many times had he used exactly the same
words to Jason—and with probably the same effect! “Go
to bed, Jason! Good-night !"
“Yes, sir, Master Jim," said Jason. “Good-night, sir."
Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver and went out into the
street again, making for the Bowery now, and walking in an
uptown direction. It would save time to meet Benson by
part of the way. By the time he walked to the Palace Saloon,
Benson should have about reached there too.
He began a mental calculation as he went along. Say,
twenty-five minutes for Benson to get downtown, then an-
other twenty for himself, Jimmie Dale, to reach his objective
on Fifth Avenue, still another twenty for the work there was
to do, and, yes, that was pretty close figuring, though it gave
Benson, who was far safer away from the car and would
have to walk, a leeway of twenty minutes. Allow an extra
ten minutes, then, as a factor of safety. That made seventy-
five minutes—an hour and a quarter. He looked at his
watch. It was exactly half-past one. That would bring it,
then, to a quarter to three.
He nodded. A quarter to three! He could depend on
Benson literally to the extent of his life, and indeed had done
so on more than one occasion; Benson as a chauffeur was
almost on the same plane with Jason as a butler. As he had


AT A QUARTER TO THREE
211
remarked many times before, there was perhaps no man in
New York who was served as he was—and it was not a
service of money. Rare thing? Yes! But it was true. It
did exist in the world. Thank God for it!
Jimmie Dale walked briskly. He reached the corner in
front of the Palace Saloon that he had given his chauffeur as
a rendezvous. Benson had not yet arrived. Consulting his
watch, Jimmie Dale waited a minute, and then taking out
a little notebook began to write rapidly under the rays of the
street lamp. This, too, would save time—or, at least, pre-
serve the schedule. It would save the two or three minutes
necessary to give Benson verbal instructions, though he could,
of course, taken Benson along with him in the car since
their roads would lie in the same direction for part of the
way, but he had definitely decided against that. If anything
went amiss, it would be infinitely better for Benson that there
should be no possibility of the two of them having been seen
together in the car. He owed that to Benson. It was quite
another matter that Benson, obeying orders, should have
turned the car over to his employer here where he had been
instructed to do so.
He tore the leaf from his notebook and folded it carefully.
There was one minute left for Benson to make the rendez-
vous on the timetable set for- Yes, here he was now!
A car drew up at the curb. Benson's clean-cut, strong,
young face showed in the light as he touched his cap.
"Good work, Benson!” said Jimmie Dale approvingly.
“What time is it?”.
Benson leaned forward to consult the car's clock.
“By your watch, Benson,” said Jimmie Dale. He held his
own in his hand.
Benson looked at his wrist watch.
"Five minutes of two, sir," he said.
"Right!” said Jimmie Dale. He motioned Benson from
the car. "I'll take the car, Benson.” And then, as he swung
into the driver's seat, he leaned out and handed Benson the
folded note. “Follow these instructions to the letter, Ben-
son," he said quietly. "And destroy that note. Good-night.”


AT A QUARTER TO THREE 213
and Jimmie Dale closed the door softly behind him.
His lips, beneath the mask, tightened now, as the flash-
light, playing again through the darkness, focused on an
open safe near the window at the rear of the room, and upon
what had evidently been a very large proportion of the con-
tents of the safe which were now strewn about on the floor
in front of it. He stepped forward quickly, and kneeling on
the floor began to search carefully beneath the litter of
documents, papers and books. A minute, two, three, went
by—and then Jimmie Dale stood up again. Between his
fingers he held a cheap and tawdry shirt stud.
He stood looking at it for a moment, balancing it now in
his hand. And a softer light crept into his eyes, and a strange
smile tempered the grimness of his tightened lips. No, it
wasn't worth much, just a rhinestone- just ten years in the
penitentiary, that was all!
And then Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders. The mar-
gin of time was narrowing. He slipped the shirt stud into
his pocket, and sent the flashlight's ray playing inquisitively
around the room. There was still the letter that the police
would receive in the morning, and which must be made to
disprove even itself, be made to stand out so glaringly as a
plant to saddle a crime on an innocent man's shoulders that
none could mistake it for what it was. And there was only
one way to accomplish that!
His eyes followed the ray of the flashlight. Yes, that
single bracket light over there would do when the time came.
He could not afford to be too generous! And now the
window. He walked over to it and raised the drawn shade.
It looked out on the courtyard. Silently, cautiously, he
opened the window wide. Ten feet to the ground. Well, it
might be worse!
At a quarter to three! He returned to the centre of the
room, and consulted his watch. He had not needed all of
that extra ten minutes. He was four minutes to the good.
He stood there in the darkness. It was very silent in the
house, and yet it was strange what queer noises even silence
possessed if one listened for them. They began very low,


214 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
and grew louder, but always in a palpitating sort of way,
and finally beat with almost thunderous clamour at the ear
drums,
The flashlight was on the dial of the watch again. Seven-
teen minutes to three. Benson would be at work now. It
would take a minute or two, of course. He smiled with
grim whimsicality. It always did! He had allowed for that.
The flashlight held on the dial of the watch—and suddenly
went out.
A quarter to three.
Faintly, from the front of the house, the telephone rang
—and Jimmie Dale was in action. The side light went on,
filling the room with a soft mellow glow. He stepped silently
to the closed door, and with his ear to the panel listened. The
telephone rang again-and still gain. And then, barely
audible on the thickly carpeted stairs, he caught the sound
of a footstep descending.
And presently Jimmie Dale's lips twisted again in a grim
smile. He could not hear, he did not have the receiver at
his ear, but it was Benson speaking from a slot booth in the
Grand Central station where, though they might eventually
trace the call, they would never trace Benson. It was Ben-
son speaking, but the words were his, Jimmie Dale's :
"I don't want to appear in this, so never mind who I am.
I couldn't find a phone any nearer, so it's about ten minutes
ago that I saw a man climb over your back fence and steal
into your house. I guess if you've got such a thing as a
safe there, you'll know where to find him; and if you're
quiet enough about it you ought to get him yet.”
That was what Benson was saying! It was quite all
right. The call would be traced—but it would "hold water."
The Grand Central was just about within a ten-minute range
of the Froomes' residence.
Jimmie Dale's ear was still pressed against the door panel.
The footstep was mounting the stairs now-but evidently
with extreme caution, for Jimmie Dale could scarcely catch
a sound. It was probably the butler. Reinforcements! He


-- XXI -
THE CALL OF THE
cally, inside. Therees, obsessing past nine. with his eyesdenly
NIGHT light on the stand beside the bed glowed
dimly, throwing curious little shadowy patterns on
walls and ceilings. Jimmie Dale turned restlessly in
the bed. His hand stole beneath his pajamas and mechani-
cally, in a sort of tentative way, felt over his tightly ban-
daged side. There was a nervous disquiet upon him, grow-
ing with the minutes, obsessing him. He reached out to the
bed table for his watch. Half past nine.
For a moment he lay still, tracing with his eyes the
shadows' fanciful shapes on the ceiling; and then suddenly
he flung the covers from him, got out of bed, snatched up a
dressing gown, and crossed the room to an easy chair by the
window. He sat down and stared out into the night.
Rest! Quiet! He could no longer rest, because his mind
would no longer remain quiet but ground on and on like the
turning of a mill wheel that never ceased. The first night-
when he had been wounded and the loss of blood had weak-
ened him-yes. But not now! Thank God, he had re-
gained consciousness in time that night to prevent Jason
telephoning for a doctor! With the papers full of the bur-
glar in evening clothes who was believed to have been hit
by a shot as he had leaped through the library window of
the Froomes' mansion on Fifth Avenue, it would have been
perhaps a little awkward for Jimmie Dale to explain a bullet
wound in his side even to a trusted physician! It had been
only a flesh wound. Jason and Benson between them had
done famously with him here at home. It was healing now.
That was three nights ago. It was still sore and stiff-he
gritted his teeth as a twinge of pain caught him suddenly-
but it was healing nicely.
217


THE CALL OF THE NIGHT 219
versatile and cunning of the Phantom satellites, was dead;
and two out of the four trusted pawns who had had their
rendezvous in the back upstairs room at Wally Kerrigan's
“club," Spud MacGuire and Muller, were dead. The per-
centage was very heavy! There remained only Bunty Myers,
the Kitten, and Mother Margot. The circle was narrowing.
Was that why, where previously Mother Margot had always
been called from the pushcart on Thompson Street to the
telephone in the rear of that malodorous little second-hand
store to act as the mouthpiece of the “Voice," where previ-
ously all communications had passed through her, the Phan-
tom had now changed his tactics and admitted his tools to
personal interviews ?
A frown, half of perplexity, half of annoyance, gathered
on Jimmie Dale's forehead. This might or might not be the
reason. Very much more likely not! He had forgotten for
the moment that Mother Margot had been away that night.
He brushed his hand across his eyes, as he winced sud-
denly again with pain. He wondered if Mother Margot were
back yet. That was a curious telephone booth at the back
of the second-hand store where she received her messages !
A side door that opened on the laneand the booth in a
sort of back storeroom! He had, of course, investigated the
place almost immediately after that night at Mrs. Kinsey's
when Mother Margot had imparted her unwilling informa-
tion about it, and the result of that investigation had been to
make it plain that the telephone itself was purely a part, just
as Mother Margot's rooms were, of the Phantom's equip-
ment, and that Mezzo himself, who was a doddering, almost
senile old man, was not even a pawn-merely a convenience.
The old Italian, whose hearing was probably just good
enough and no more to distinguish the ringing of the bell,
whose trade was among a clientele far removed from such
luxuries, could have no, possible use for a telephone, let alone
one in a booth, and less possible excuse for the expense that
one involved. He was simply paid to keep it there. That
was obvious. Well, it had served still another purpose
since he, Jimmie Dale, had not infrequently used it himself !
d that Mezzo hims were, of the purely a part, just


220 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
The Phantom was not the only one who called Mother Mar-
got to the phone, or the only one to whom the old hag paid
allegiance! He smiled grimly. Perhaps he counted too
much on that! Because he, Jimmie Dale, as the Gray Seal,
had once caught Mother Margot in the act of double-crossing
her own pals, it was no guarantee that, though he might hold
her in a sort of allegiance therefrom, she would be above
double-crossing him too!
He shook his head. No! He had watched her too closely.
He was not prepared to say what she might do if she got the
chance, but so far he was satisfied that she had played straight
with him-only, so far, the little information she had had to
give had not brought him much nearer to his goal.
His mind reverted to Bunty Myers. Bunty Myers had
come out of the affair that night at Twisty Munn's when he
had shot Kid Gregg without a breath of suspicion attaching
to him. Again Jimmie Dale smiled grimly. He remembered
that, as he had run down the stairs with the awakened tene-
ment howling about his ears, the thought had flashed through
his mind that if Twisty Munn had recognised Bunty Myers
the latter would have the police drag-net sweeping the city,
yes, and the country, for him, and he would be hard put to
it to find cover. But, as it had turned out, whether Twisty
Munn had really recognised Bunty Myers or not, Twisty
Munn had remained silent on the subject. Yesterday's papers
had been full of the affair. Twisty Munn was by nature an
ingenious and versatile liar, and he had run true to form.
Himself in the very act of receiving the stolen contents of
Martin K. Froomes' safe when the shooting occurred,
Twisty Munn had, of course, as an incentive for remaining
silent the undesirability of implicating himself in a criminal
transaction; and again, he might not actually have known
who Bunty Myers was, or, if he had, the fear of reprisals if
he snitched might also very logically account for his reticence.
Twisty Munn, so Twisty Munn swore, knew absolutely
nothing about the matter, except that he and Kid Gregg had
been sitting in his room talking when the door had burst
open and a couple of men he had never seen before had


THE CALL OF THE NIGHT 221
entered. Kid Gregg had jumped to his feet and pulled his
gun, and just as he fired one of the others had dropped him.
He, Twisty Munn, didn't know what it was all about, s'help
him God! but he had a hunch it was a personal row between
Kid Gregg and one of the other men over some moll or other.
Quite so! Into Jimmie Dale's dark eyes there came an
ironical gleam. There was nothing to disprove it. Twisty
Munn's story fitted into the balance of the night as perfectly
as though it were the truth!. Well, that left Bunty Myers
free! That was what counted. It would be easier to find
Bunty Myers now than if he had taken to cover from the
police. And it was Bunty Myers that he, Jimmie Dale,
wanted now!
And then Jimmie Dale shook his head again—in sudden
irritation now. Had he forgotten too that since the night
Little Sweeney had masqueraded as Isaac Shiftel and paid
for it with his life, Bunty Myers had already sought cover,
perhaps more as a precautionary measure than because he
was actually "wanted” for that affair, but nevertheless had
completely forsaken his usual haunts; and had he also for-
gotten a night not long ago when, as Smarlinghue, he had
searched vainly through the length and breadth and in the
most hidden places of the underworld for the man? He had
wanted Bunty Myers then, hadn't he? And he had not
found him.
The strong, square jaws locked with a snap. Yes! That
was true! But he wanted the man more now, wanted him
vitally. He would find him, that was all!
And then, what?
Jimmie Dale's laugh, short, hard, mirthless, rang low
through the room. And then, what? The answer to that
was simple. The buttons were off the foils. What Bunty
Myers knew he would be made to tell. Bunty Myers wasn't
tired of life, and if he found himself cornered by, say, the
Gray Seal, and given the choice of telling where he had had
that conversation with the Phantom or of paying the price
of silence with his life, there was very little question as to
what the man would do, for out of his own experience


222 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Bunty Myers would not credit the Gray Seal with trifling!
Nor would there be any trifling. The knowledge Bunty
Myers now possessed meant that the Phantom at last could
be trapped; it meant that at last her life, the Tocsin's, could
be made safe; that the nightmare of horror which must even
now be turning her soul sick within her could be brought to
an end; that sunshine could come, and love and the joy of
living could be hers once more, and
With a low cry, Jimmie Dale leaned suddenly with his
elbows on the window sill, staring out into the blackness of
the night. It seemed to be beckoning, calling to him.
She was out there somewhere.
Was she? Was he even certain that she was still alive?
Something cold, an icy grip, seemed to clutch at his heart.
Since the night at Miser Scroff's, true to her stated determin-
ation to keep him out of the shadows, as she called them, that
enveloped her, that held her life in peril, he had had no word
from her.
Jimmie Dale was gnawing at his lips now; his arms fell
from the window sill, and his hands clenched at his sides.
She had simply kept her word. That was what she had
said she would do. Why then this sudden access that verged
on panic? He laughed out shortly again. It wasn't sudden.
It wasn't a new phase. It hadn't just at this moment ger-
minated in his brain. It was what had been growing there
ever since he had lain wounded in bed. It was the seat of
that constant disquiet and restlessness that was culminating
now in What?
He was on his feet; and now he began to pace the room.
To protect her life she had arrayed herself against the merci-
less cunning of the Phantom-not a man; a monster. There
was no middle course between them. There was but one
end. One of the two must fall. And the Phantom was still
safe, still secure, still at his hell-born deviltries.
And she?
A bead of moisture oozed out on Jimmie Dale's forehead.
He flirted it away with a sweep of his hand. It meant little
that her silence was exactly in accordance with what she
It wahadn't jusain. It is that


226 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
"It's likely to cost me more than that to stay in,” said
Jimmie Dale, quietly.
The old man twisted his hands together; he coughed in a
sort of helpless way.
"I'm an old man, Master Jim, sir"—the tears were welling
into Jason's eyes—“and you'll pardon me, Master Jim, for
taking liberties, but when you were a baby I dandled you,
Master Jim, on my knee, and—and I know there's something
strange and—and danger—that's come into your life and
it isn't my place to ask what it is, but—but for God's sake,
Master Jim, sir, don't you go out until you're well enough."
Jimmie Dale stepped toward the old man, and laid both
hands on the other's shoulders-gently.
"Jason,” he said, steadily, “get me an overcoat, light
weight, dark color—and a slouch hat. Tell Benson I'm
waiting for him—and to pamper my infirmities we'll take the
limousine to-night.” He turned Jason around, and pushed
the old man quietly toward the door. “Look sharp, please,
Jason,” he said.
The door closed behind the old butler. For an instant
Jimmie Dale stood staring at the door, his face softened,
almost a mistiness in the dark, steady eyes; then he turned
abruptly to the liqueur stand again.
"I guess perhaps I'll need it,” he muttered.
He took out a small silver flask, filled it with brandy, and
slipped it into his pocket. He went out then, closing the door
behind him. As he descended the stairs he caught the sound
of the car on the driveway coming from the garage at the
rear of the house. That was Benson-another Jason! He
felt suddenly humbled. Benson young, Jason old-at the
extremes of life—and each without an instant's hesitation
would give their all for him. It was a strange, strange thing,
the love of men one for another—the love of these two for
him. He had accepted it all too matter-of-factly perhaps in
the past, not stopping to appraise it always for its immeasur-
able worth, or, when he thought of it, perhaps priding him-
self on it only as a possession that other men did not have,
like a suit of clothes perhaps made by an exclusive tailor


THE CALL OF THE NIGHT 227
where the same pattern was not supplied to any one else. He
did not know how he had won it.
He took his coat and hat from Jason in the hallway. The
old man's lips were twitching.
“God bless you, Jason !” said Jimmie Dale suddenly, and
swung through the door.
At the curb Benson, the chauffeur, touched his cap, as he
reached out to open the door of the big closed car—then
hesitated.
"You'll excuse me, Mr. Dale,” he stammered, “but-but
I- "
Jimmie Dale smiled.
“It's a wonderful night, isn't it, Benson—for a drive?” he
said. “West Broadway, Benson-and, oh, yes, stop any-
where within a block of Thompson Street.”
"Yes, sir,” said Benson mechanically—and opened the
door.
Jimmie Dale stepped into the car. The door closed. He
saw Benson, in the act of swinging into his seat, turn and
face for an instant the open doorway of the lighted vestibule
where Jason stood. Benson's shoulders lifted in a helpless
gesture.
"What the hell can I do?" said Benson's shoulders elo-
quently.


- XXII
A TAPPED WIRE
FIMMIE DALE settled back in his seat. The car moved
swiftly, smoothly downtown. It wasn't so bad; not so
very much worse than being in bed. He was quite
all right.
He stared out of the windows. He had no plans—no
definite plans. How could he have? Somewhere, somehow,
he must pick up the trail of the Phantom's associates. That
was all. And Mother Margot offered by far the best and
surest way—if she were back. Obviously, therefore, the first
move was to find out if Mother Margot had returned, and
he would know that in a few minutes now.
And if she were still away?
His lips tightened grimly. The Sanctuary-Smarlinghue-
a spectre haunting the Bad Lands through the night! Per-
haps hopelessly! He had done that on so many nights before.
What other way was there—to find Bunty Myers ?
He lighted a cigarette. Occasionally he shifted his posi-
tion. He told himself that it was only because the bandage
was so tight that he was beginning to experience a little dis-
comfort.
The car circled around Washington Square, and made its
way into West Broadway. Presently it stopped. Jimmie
Dale got out.
“Wait half an hour for me, Benson," he said quietly. "No
more. If I'm not here by then take the car back home.”
He did not wait for a reply. Half a block ahead was
Thompson Street. He started toward it. His coat was
tightly buttoned around his throat, his collar turned up, his
slouch hat pulled toughly down over his eyes.
228


A TAPPED WIRE
233
der. He would strike without an instant's hesitation at the
slightest indication that the old hag had played him false.
On the other hand if he, Jimmie Dale, allowed Mother
Margot to deliver the message he delivered himself without
reservation into her hands-either that, or go back home to
bed and leave Sadie Foy's alone. But again, if the message
were delivered it promised almost to a certainty that at Sadie
Foy's he would pick up the trail he had come out to-night to
find. The Crescent Saloon and Curley did not interest him.
That was only a relaying station. The rendezvous was at
Sadie Foy's. Suppose he refused to give Mother Margot
the message? Would it stop the projected devilry that was
obviously a foot? And on that basis alone ought he to refuse?
If he did, it would cost the woman her life. There was no
supposition about that. That was fact. He couldn't do that,
could he? And yet, since he must then assume the moral
responsibility, and if for no other reason than that play a
hand at Sadie Foy's, his own life very probably hung on
whether Mother Margot would keep faith with him or not.
"Dey'll kill me !" Mother Margot whispered hoarsely. She
pulled at his sleeve, clung to it; she was rocking queerly on
her feet.
“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale calmly, "they'd kill you; and
they would equally kill me if, once out of my sight, you added
to the message the information that I was in this game again
to-night. And so you see it's a case of you being killed to a
certainty, or the chance, depending on you, of the same thing
happening to me.” He smiled suddenly, whimsically. “I
haven't very much choice, have I? I can't send you to your
death. The message? Oh, yes! It's this: The black box.
Sadie Foy's at eleven o'clock. That's all.”
She drew in her breath suddenly.
“My Gawd, youse're white!” she said in a low, catchy
way. “I gets youse. Youse're goin' to be at Sadie Foy's,
an' youse're takin' de chance of me splittin' on youse. Well,
youse needn't worry, an' I'll tell youse why. I ain't forgot
de night at Pedler Joe's. Youse made me go dere, I knows;
het med at hig's me!" Melh would klice very pethan that


THE PIECES OF A PUZZLE
237
"We'll raise the limit a little this time, Benson,” he said.
“Wait an hour."
Jimmie Dale mounted the steps of the garishly lighted
restaurant before which the car had stopped, and passed
inside. The place was a riot of noise; the clatter of dishes,
laughter, song, the never ceasing hum of numberless voices
from numberless tables where the diners sat. He walked
leisurely from room to room, making for the rear of the
establishment—and here nonchalantly walked out into the
cross street behind. The Silver Dragon was blest with two
entrances.
And now Jimmie Dale quickened his step. He was in a
narrow, twisting, ill-lighted little street in the heart of China-
town. Shuttered windows threw out stealthy gleams of light
from their interstices; scuffling figures sidled by him. He
passed a small frame house, mouldy and in decay, weather-
streaked, which paint had not touched in years. It was in
complete darkness; not a light showed from it anywhere.
And then in another minute he had slipped into the adjacent
lane, and in still another was creeping cautiously across a
filthy back yard—with the rear of the small house that was
mouldy and in decay looming up before him. This was Sadie
Foy's.
His eyes narrowed now a little grimly. It was black here
all around him, but the house itself was not quite so dark
at the rear as it had been in front! From a lower window
just ahead of him little undulating threads of light seeped
out from behind the edges of a drawn shade. It was the air
did that, of course—made the shade sway slightly. There-
fore the window must be open.
Voices, in what seemed like low, guttural undertones, be-
gan to reach him. He stole cautiously forward. There was
refuse in the yard, and it was pitch black. It was not easy
to assure silence even from step to step. A tin can became
an object of dire menace. A minute, two, passed-and then
Jimmie Dale, from a stooping position, stood upright. His
head was just on a level with the window sill. He could hear
now distinctly. .


THE PIECES OF A PUZZLE 241
Youse usell come to losed car, ane true.” He
There was a low, muttered chorus of exultant oaths; and
then the Kitten's voice:
“Dat sounds good enough to be true." He was purring
again. "I'll get a closed car, an' we'll hike along out dere,
an' youse'll come too, Manuel, so's dere won't be no tricks.
Youse ain't such a fool after all, Manuel! A little trip to
South America where youse'll be out of everybody's road,
an' a lot safer yourself dan youse have been for de last six
weeks tryin' to hide yerself away, is better'n takin' a last
ride in a wooden box where youse can't look at de scenery!
Youse're among friends, Manuel, if youse only knew it.
Dere's some ”
Jimmie Dale was retreating from the window. A moment
more, and he had gained the street; and, hurrying now, re-
turning by the same way he had come, he reached his car in
front of the Silver Dragon.
“Benson,” he said quietly, "we seem fated to make quite a
night of it. Off and on, you've driven me a number of times
to Mr. Martin-Holmes' summer residence out on the Sound.
I know it's closed now for the season, but do you remember
just exactly where it is?”
“Perfectly, sir,” said Benson.
“Good !” nodded Jimmie Dale. “Drive there now—that is
to within, say, half a mile this side of the place. If I re-
member correctly, it's quite thickly wooded there. I leave
it entirely to you to find a convenient spot in about that neigh-
bourhood to run the car off the road and park it where it will
not be seen.”
Benson stared, a hesitant, anxious expression creeping
into his face.
Jimmie Dale smiled.
"I'm still quite all right, Benson,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Benson mechanically.
"And, by the way”—— Jimmie Dale paused in the act of
stepping into the car—“I might say that I am in a very great
hurry, Benson.”
“Yes, sir," said Benson heavily.
For a moment, as he settled back on the cushions and the


242 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
car started forward, the smile held on Jimmie Dale's lips.
Benson, like Jason, was comparable to a hen with her chick.
Benson at this precise instant probably—to mix metaphors-
was inwardly wriggling like an eel. He was probably de-
bating with himself whether he should not drive directly
home, and there, by brute force if necessary, with the assist-
ance of Jason, put him, Jimmie Dale, back to bed again-
even if he got fired for it! Benson, however, in the last
analysis wouldn't do anything of the kind-he would play
the game.
The smile faded now from Jimmie Dale's lips, and a
puzzled, anxious look settled on his face as he dismissed
Benson from his mind. He had acted quickly back there at
Sadie Foy's because he had realised that there was no time
to lose; and though, even then, he had realised too that the
pieces of the puzzle seemed somehow strangely mismated,
he had also realised that the final act in any case would be
played out where he was going now—at the Santos' camp.
Further, there was the moral responsibility to save that
money, and nothing would have induced him to shift that
responsibility to, say, the police, when instinctively he sensed,
as he did, that the Phantom had still a card to play, a card
that also must be played out at the same place. But what
was that card? If it were only the Kitten who was involved,
he could pick up the Kitten's trail again at the Santos camp;
but it was more than the Kitten that he wanted, more than
the Kitten that he still hoped for, and in which hope intuition
told him he was justified. He wanted the Phantom-or
Bunty Myers.
He had time now to solve the puzzle—if he could. But
the pieces on closer examination only seemed the more mis-
mated. They contradicted even the sense of intuition that
was so strong upon him. Where was the Phantom's hand in
this? The Kitten? Well, then, why that message ?—“Sadie
Foy's at eleven o'clock.” The Kitten had said himself he had
been there long before eleven. The Kitten was therefore
already at Sadie Foy's when the message was delivered to
Curley at the Crescent Saloon. And then, again, the four


THE PIECES OF A PUZZLE 245
account of the trial it had come out in evidence that the
authorities had not been lax. Always on demand securities
in the shape of bonds had been produced to make the bal-
ances. Of course! And of a sudden those bonds had been
transferred into cash, and-presto!—the squalid little bank
was no more! He smiled grimly. It was probably the steady
demand for so many bills of large denominations during the
two or three days prior to the end that had first aroused
the suspicions of the authorities, and—
The car was slowing down. And now it jolted over rough
ground. A branch slapped smartly against the window pane.
The headlights, streaming out, threw tree trunks into spectral
relief against a background of utter blackness. And then
the headlights went off, and the car stopped.
Jimmie Dale stepped out.
“You're sure of the place, Benson, and that you're hidden
from the road ?” he asked crisply.
“Yes, sir," Benson answered. “Quite sure, sir.”
"Very well!” said Jimmie Dale. “Keep your lights off,
wait for me, and don't leave the car under any circum-
stances.” He sensed a protest anent himself rising to Ben-
son's lips, and he turned quickly away. "I'll be back in a
few minutes, Benson,” he said.


- XXIV -
THE BLACK BOX
IMMIE DALE moved forward through the trees. It
could not be far, not more than three or four hundred
yards, for the Santos house lay between himself and
the Martin-Holmes estate. That was why he had told
Benson to stop half a mile this side of the latter place. The
general direction, he knew, was a diagonal one-toward the
Martin-Holmes' residence, and toward the shore, away from
the road. He smiled a little queerly to himself as he went
along. He remembered that during a week-end visit to
Holmes a year or so ago, the latter had expressed his annoy-
ance at what he had called an unsightly shack that two
Portuguese had put up on the beach close to his place. He,
Jimmie Dale, had not been very much interested then; he
was vitally interested in that so-called shack now!
He frowned suddenly. He had been making fair prog-
ress, and should have reached his destination by now; but,
instead, he was still in the woods and the ground was growing
wet and soggy under foot. He edged off in the direction of
the shore-the house was at the water's edge, Holmes had
said-and went on for another hundred yards. It grew
worse. He could hear now the lapping of the waves. The
trees grew fewer, and began to be replaced by a reedy growth
—and then of a sudden Jimmie Dale halted. A glimmer of
moonlight flickered on water and waving marsh grass. It
was impassable/it reached out into the Sound itself.
It was disaster! He felt his face whiten. He must already
have been ten minutes on the way—and ten minutes was
the utmost limit of margin he had any right to count upon.
Ten minutes! It was far worse than that! It would take
on for now the leap
laced by. A glimin
246


THE BLACK BOX
251
figure. Bunty Myers stumbled, recovered himself, came on
again, staggered through the doorway, and stumbled again-
this time dropping to the floor.
And then Jimmie Dale was at work. He slammed the
door shut, and snatching out his pick-lock, locked it. Bunty
Myers! He wanted Bunty Myers! This was the man he
had set out to find to-night, and— No, it wasn't only that!
Thank God, he wasn't quite so raw as that! Those thugs
in there, those apaches, would kill the man like a dog, as they
had already tried to do, for interfering with their meat. And
the more so now that they would find that meat gone! The
Kitten couldn't stop them without giving himself away. It
wasn't Bunty Myers, it was a man's life now—if the man
were not already too far gone.
He held the box under his left arm, as he bent forward to
the huddled form on the floor.
"Quick!” he whispered. “Put your arm around my
neck. Do you hear? Make an effort! It's your only
chance."
The man, with Jimmie Dale's assistance, lurched to his
feet. They staggered, half fell down the stairs together.
Bunty Myers was mumbling almost incoherently:
"I-I had a breakdown on the way-out-Kitten. Damn
fool, Kitten, why couldn't youse hold-back-eh?—only a-
a little late-youse ".
A sweat of agony was standing out on Jimmie Dale's
forehead. He was half carrying the man. His side was
torturing him.
"My God!" whispered Jimmie Dale between drawn lips.
Behind, upstairs, they were smashing at the locked door.
They would either have to break it down or come around
the other way through the house. It was worth a couple of
minutes' start—and there was the boat there now on the
shore just a few yards away.
He plunged on, staggering. Bunty Myers had become
almost a dead weight. Well, he couldn't leave the man to
be killed, could he? The man kept muttering now, mutter-
ing, muttering :


252 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
"... Up an' down-see?—'ell of a note—up an' down,
up an' down —
Bunty Myers collapsed a limp heap in the bottom of the
boat. Jimmie Dale shoved it off, and jumped in. There
were no oars, save a broken one. He seized it, and began to
paddle. Footsteps pounded on the verandah, racing around
the house. A yell went up:
"Dere he is! Dere he is—in de boat!”
There was the crash and flame spurt of shots, the spat oi
lead on the water. Jimmie Dale threw himself flat in the
boat beside Bunty Myers. With the initial push, and the
few strokes he had managed, the boat was quite a little dis.
tance from the shore, and what breeze there was was carry.
ing it still farther out and also in the direction of the marshy
tract through which he had first tried to reach the house,
They could not, therefore, follow him along the shore.
A medley of voices from the shore, punctuated by oaths,
reached him:
"Get a boat. ... Dere'll be one up at dat swell ranch
even if it is closed for de summer. . . . Sure! Bust de
boathouse in. ... Beat it quick. . . . He's good an' hurt,
an' he won't get far. ... He was winged upstairs in de
attic w'en he fell- "
Jimmie Dale wrenched his flask from his pocket. They had
only seen one man. Of course! His head was swimming
crazily. He gulped down some brandy, and then felt for
Bunty Myers' lips.
“Drink this !” he said hoarsely.
The liquor gurgled queerly. He felt it run down the man's
chin—but Bunty Myers must have swallowed some of it, for
he began to mutter again, obviously in delirium now.
"Up an' down, I tell youse!” mumbled Bunty Myers. “It's
honest to Gawd's truth. She don't know it, 'cause it's in de
next house. It goes up an' down, I tell youse. I saw it.
Up an'-" His voice trailed off.
What did the man mean? Jimmie Dale swept his hand
across his eyes. It encountered his mask. He pulled it off
and put it in his pocket. They were both delirious, weren't
What did the me encountered his moth delirious,


THE BLACK BOX
253
they—he and Bunty Myers? This was the man he had come
to find, and from whose lips he had sworn he would tear the
Phantom's secret, and all the man did was to croak, “Up and
down, up and down!" Why didn't he say, “See-saw, Mar-
jorie Daw!"
He gulped down another mouthful of brandy. Yes, that
was better now. He raised his head. The shore was indis-
tinct; not so much through distance, but because what little
moonlight there had been was gone now—under a cloud.
They would have a boat after him pretty soon. He must
paddle now-risk a shot—he wouldn't be very distinct, either.
He dipped in the broken oar. It brought a moan of agony
from his lips. The shots he had invited from the shore came
—and missed. He must paddle—if it tore his side to pieces.
Only one man in the boat. That's what they thought.
Well, then, why not? He could easily save himself. Drop
overboard and swim ashore somewhere in the marshy tract.
wa board and swim ashore some
He had strength enough for that. They'd find the boat-and
find a man in it! But there was some reason why he couldn't
do that. He shook his head fiercely as though to clear his
brain. Yes, of course! He couldn't leave that huddled figure
there at his feet to be killed, could he? So it would have to
be a fight, unless he could evade them in the darkness.
And—and there wasn't much chance of that. He listened.
That sounded like a boat coming from somewhere far behind
now. But there weren't any more shots from the shore.
Naturally! He must be opposite the marsh now, and they
couldn't follow him any more on the land.
He couldn't leave the man to be killed and that's what
they'd do, kill the man. The Kitten couldn't prevent it with-
out the others understanding the whole game and turning
on the Kitten too. The Kitten had done all he could when
he had bumped against the arm of the man who had fired that
first shot. Funny, that Bunty Myers should be here! No,
it was clear, quite clear! Bunty Myers had started out all
right for the box, but a breakdown had made him late, so
late that he
A shout came from the shore behind. It was answered


THE BLACK BOX
255
wade as quickly as he could, and still avoid making any
splash, toward the shore.
The sounds from the oncoming boat grew louder, the
voices more distinct. And then Jimmie Dale, reeling a little,
stepped from the water's edge, and began to make his way
silently through the woods. He knew the way. There was
no danger of losing it. He was on the same side of the
marshy tract that Benson was. He had only to keep straight
ahead toward the road. And it wasn't far.
Curious, how heavy the black box was! He smiled grimly.
Back there they would think Bunty Myers must have let it
drop overboard. What else could they think? But to-
morrow the police would get it-with the compliments of the
Gray Seal. And the Phantom-no, Bunty Myers! His head
was swirling again, but his brain seemed to be fighting des-
perately to tell him that what Bunty Myers had said about
"up and down” and a “next house” somewhere was some-
thing he should understand, because he was to make Bunty
Myers tell him something if Bunty Myers died for it, and
he knew very well that Bunty Myers had died.
He gnawed at his lips. His head was very bad—very bad.
He couldn't think any more. Not now! Not to-night! But
he had no need to think any more now, had he? There was
Benson and the car looming up just ahead of him. The rest
was for to-morrow, and the to-morrows.
The to-morrows. ...


- XXV -
IN THE SANCTUARY
DOOR opened and closed softly. A shadow moved
in the darkness. Came then the crackle of a match,
and a gas jet, air-choked, wheezing in protest,
emitted a thin blue flame, grew yellow, and cast a meagre
glow over its immediate surroundings. Unkempt, disrepu-
table in his ragged, threadbare attire as Smarlinghue, Jimmie
Dale stood for an instant staring around him at the squalid
appointments of the place, and then moving abruptly to the
far end of the room, flung himself down upon the already
crumpled coverings of the dilapidated cot bed against the
wall.
This was the Sanctuary. He half closed his eyes, staring
at the asthmatic, stuttering gas jet. Well, it would be in
every verity a sanctuary for another hour or so; a retreat
where he could strive quietly to bring mental order out of
chaos, and, yes, physically rest for a little while until it was
time to carry out the plan that he proposed to put into execu-
tion before another morning came.
Since last night, all through the day, those mumbled words
of Bunty Myers, the dying gangster, had been ringing in his
ears. They had become an obsession. He could not rid his
mind of them—or of the insistently growing intuition that
they were the key to the Phantom's lair if he could only make
head or tail of them. “Up an' down, I tell youse. . . . She
don't know it, 'cause it's in de next house. . . . It goes up
an' down, I tell youse. ..."
Who was “she”? He could not actually deduce it logi-
cally, but he was nevertheless sure that “she” was Mother
Margot. The voices he had heard in her room but could not
256


IN THE SANCTUARY
257
locate, the certainty that the clue, the phantom clue as he
came to call it, was to be found in Mother Margot's rooms,
was of course the basis for this interpretation; but it was the
“next house” that bothered him. What did that mean? If
he were right, and it was Mother Margot who did not know
“ 'cause it's in de next house," where was this “next house"?
There was nothing there but another tenement across the
narrow areaway.
He frowned suddenly, impatiently. His mind was simply
beginning to go over again, vainly, ineffectually, what it had
already gone over a thousand times, it seemed, since last
night. He had already made a decision-hours ago. He
would know to-night whether he was right or not; he would
know before he slept whether Bunty Myers' dying words
linked up the Phantom's secret with Mother Margot's rooms
or not. To-night, finally, the phantom clue that was in any
case connected with the old hag's rooms would be a mystery
no longer if he literally had to wreck the place to unearth it.
Jimmie Dale nodded grimly to himself. To-night! In a
little while-it was too early yet. Just ten o'clock.
His lips tightened. Yes; wreck it! His was a single pur-
pose now—that to-night he would strike with all his might;
strike without counting the personal cost; and, above all,
strike while for once he possessed the certainty that it would
not be too late in the sense that even success in the unearthing
of the Phantom and in a final reckoning with the man might
only hold a bitter emptiness because she, the Tocsin, the
woman he loved, would already have been beyond all aid.
There would be no thought of that. He was lighter of
heart on that score than he had been for many days. She
was alive; yes, and well, and safe. He knew that to-night.
The torment, the fear for her safety that, finding no trace of
her, he had known yesterday, and for so many yesterdays
before, was gone now. She was alive; and, so far, she was
safe. His lips moved silently. Thank God for that! And
now he asked only that, whatever the outcome to himself in
what he was about to do, she might after to-night be safe for
always.


IN THE SANCTUARY
259
12
A strange, grim light crept into Jimmie Dale's half-closed
eyes. The circle had indeed narrowed. Of the Phantom's
satellites, of all those who once had gathered in that back,
upstairs room of Wally Kerrigan's “club,” there were left
now only two—the Kitten and Mother Margot. Those two
--and somewhere in his hidden lair the Phantom. Well,
to-night then-
He nodded quickly to himself. He was only waiting until
it was a little later. He turned impatiently on the cot. Time
seemed to drag interminably. The stage was already set.
He had warned Mother Margot to keep away from her
rooms to-night; to find an alibi for herself. It was a little
quixotic, perhaps, a little of added danger to himself; but
again, as it had been last night, her life, if things went wrong,
might very well pay part of the forfeit, and even Mother
Margot was entitled to her life. What else could he have
done? It was true that, at best, he could consider her but
an unwilling sort of ally; but nevertheless, even though it
might have been but through fear, she had, he was sure,
always played straight with him. And so to-night he could
have done no less than to have given her her chance again.
Jimmie Dale rose abruptly from the cot, and, with the
envelope in his hand, stepped back across the room again
to a position under the gas jet. He had found the note here
in the usual place behind the movable section of the base-
board when, late that afternoon, after having previously
called Mother Margot from her pushcart on Thompson
Street to that rather singularly-placed telephone in the rear
of Antonio Mezzo's shop and had given her her warning,
he had come to the Sanctuary for the purpose of assuming
the role of Smarlinghue, and of spending at least a portion
of the waiting hours in the underworld's inner circles which
were always pregnant with the possibility of affording an
additional thread or clue that might lend strength to his in-
tended stroke against the Phantom. He read the note again.
It was dated that afternoon:


IN THE SANCTUARY
261
course, and in that sense caused him a certain discomfort,
but otherwise he was quite normal.
It was not his wound that caused his restlessness; it was
this dragging of time, this waiting for the moment to arrive
when he could supplant inaction with activity. Perhaps he
would have done better to have remained longer in those
various hidden places of the inner circles of the underworld
that he had visited after he had received the Tocsin's note?
He shrugged his shoulders. No; he was better here. He
had learned all that he could have hoped to learn-yes, and
more! No; that was not quite true. He had, rather, only
substantiated beyond question what he had already decided
in his own mind could be the only logical conclusion to the
affair of last night when the Kitten and Bunty Myers,
playing Steenie Klotz and his companion apaches for dupes,
had attempted to secure the stolen funds of the defunct
Banco Santos.
His jaws closed with a snap. Whisperings! How many
times before had he listened to the voice of the underworld
breathing its secrets through the underground exchanges
where none save those of the aristocracy might find entrance,
and where the peers of that abandoned realm of Crimeland
kept their fingers on the pulse of a seething, disturbed and
moiling citizenry! And to-night the underworld was in a
sort of tense ferment, watching in unholy anticipation a
game of life and death that was being played out behind its
guarded doors that were so effectually closed to the outer
world.
Jimmie Dale smiled suddenly, grimly now. He had found
the underworld viciously agog, intent with gluttonous eager-
ness upon a drama whose dénoûement promised to be blood-
thirsty and murderous enough to satisfy even its unbridled
lusts! Steenie Klotz, Red Jack and their companions had
been played for dupes by Bunty Myers and the Kitten, but
the dupes were not altogether fools, nor their intellects fallen
to so low an estate that they had failed to absorb the fact
that one plus one made two! The Kitten, and very certainly
indeed Bunty Myers, had not expected that the night would
ough the voice Tings!


262 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
end with the dupes finding Bunty Myers dead at their hands
in that boat on the shore of the Sound! And of the two now
Bunty Myers was perhaps in the better case! The Kitten,
it transpired, had had sense enough not to stand on the order
of his going, and had incontinently fled for his life. He
had not been heard of since last night.
Again Jimmie Dale smiled grimly. It was the logical con-
clusion-and it was very simple. Bunty Myers and the
Kitten for years had been well known characters in the
underworld; and for years they had been known to work
together in Gentleman Laroque's gang. And one and one
made two, that was all!
Whisperings! Whisperings, as ghouls might whisper in
hideous enthusiasm at the promise of some abominable feast
to come, whisperings everywhere through the underground
exchanges of Gangland! Of the passing of Bunty Myers the
police as yet were apparently in ignorance; but Steenie Klotz
and his outraged apaches had not hesitated in "safe" quar-
ters to spread the story and make known the sentence they
had passed upon their betrayer. And the underworld in its
blood lust waited. It was the law. The Kitten was being
hunted mercilessly to his death. But so far they had not
found the Kitten.
Jimmie Dale nodded at the gas jet. That was what he had
learned in the underworld's inner circles; and then he had
returned here to the Sanctuary, for it was not as Smarling-
hue but as the Gray Seal that he meant to play out the night.
And now time dragged. He could not even begin to strip
off these rags and discard the character of the drug-broken,
dissolute artist until the moment arrived when he was ready
to leave. It was too dangerous, for in the meantime some
one, any one, a lodger even in the same tenement here, might
come, and
He sat up suddenly erect on the cot. Some one was com-
ing. He listened. A footstep shuffled along in the hall out-
side and reached the door; and then someone knocked
guardedly upon the panel.


OX ст.
263
IN THE SANCTUARY
the two
The BE
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logical
a tot
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a::a :
Eerto
It was Smarlinghue, not Jimmie Dale, who spoke.
"Who's there?” he demanded ungraciously.
"It's me," a voice croaked hurriedly. “Let me in, Smarly.
It's Mother Margot."
Mother Margot! A queer smile flickered across Jimmie
Dale's lips, as he rose from the cot and started across the
room toward the door. Mother Margot who obeyed him as
the Gray Seal, when she couldn't help it perhaps; Mother
Margot who accepted Smarlinghue as one of her own ilk,
and, on one occasion at least, as a source of assistance and
an ally in her turbulent life! What did Mother Margot want
with Smarlinghue to-night? He opened the door, and, as
the old hag, her shawl drawn closely around her head, en-
tered, he closed it again behind her.
"Hello, Mother!” said Jimmie Dale facetiously. “Ain't
business good down on Thompson Street to-night?”
She glanced around her furtively.
“Dere ain't no one here, is dere?” she asked anxiously.
Jimmie Dale shook his head.
"Spill it!” he invited. “What's the matter?"
Again she glanced around her, and it was almost a minute
before she spoke. She twisted her hands nervously to-
gether.
"Youse helped me once before, Smarly," she whispered
finally. "I-I ain't got no one else to ask, an'-an' to-night
I'm in bad. Youse-youse'll help me again, won't youse,
Smarly?”
Jimmie Dale pushed one of the two rickety chairs the
Sanctuary possessed toward her.
"How do I know ?” he countered cautiously. "I ain't
making promises on the blind. Help yourself to the chair,
and I'll listen.”
Mother Margot shook her head quickly.
"I ain't got no time to sit down. An' I ain't got no chance
for anythin' only mabbe to get croaked to-night if youse won't
help me. I ran all de way over here, an'-an' I was scared
youse wouldn't be here." She was wringing her hands to-
gether again in evident terror and nervousness. “Oh, my
-id ini
es bei
Thad a


264 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Gawd, if youse hadn't been here, Smarly, I—” Her voice
broke and ended in a choked sob.
Jimmie Dale's eyes, from the crouching, dishevelled,
shawled and spectacled old creature, sought the shadows cast
by the flickering gas jet that played along the edge of the
threadbare strip of carpet at his feet. He did not question
the genuineness of her distress. He had very good reason to
believe in it most thoroughly. He was even vitally, person-
ally, intimately concerned in it; for, back of it, where Mother
Margot was involved, must be the Phantom's hand. He
smiled queerly to himself. What it was that had brought
her here he, as Jimmie Dale, must know; but that knowledge
could only be obtained through Smarlinghue, and Smarling-
hue was-well, Smarlinghue was Smarlinghue.
"Well, don't lose your nerve,” said Smarlinghue a little
sharply, “or maybe you'll get me scared too, and the deal'll
be off before it's started. The time before you got me to go
hunting for English Steve, and I found him-murdered.
What is it this time?”
"I-I've got to try an' get a message to some one," she
said anxiously.
“That's what you said when it was English Steve," ob-
served Smarlinghue judicially. "Well, shoot! Who is it
to-night?”
Again she did not answer immediately; again she glanced
furtively around her. And then she spoke, her voice scarcely
audible:
“De Gray Seal.”
"The Gray Seal!” Involuntarily Jimmie Dale gasped. He
stared at her. He could quite understand that she might
seek the Gray Seal ; but this was irony in its sublimest form,
wasn't it? And then suddenly he remembered. The night
he had saved himself here by playing his dual rôle! The
new heights to which Smarlinghue had risen in the under-
world through that supposed encounter! It had almost se-
cured him initiation into the confidences of Bunty Myers,
and the rest of the Phantom's followers, of which Mother
Margot here was one. That was it! Because he had once


IN THE SANCTUARY
265
been known to have been in actual, physical touch with the
Gray Seal, and would therefore perhaps be able to recognise
him again! And she had come to the Gray Seal himself!
It was exquisite!
He felt her eyes boring into him from behind her heavy-
lensed spectacles. He smiled with exaggerated derision.
But mentally now he knew no mirth. That was only one
side of it, the strange irony of it. There must be something
of no ordinary importance that could have prompted her to
act like this. What was it? She who, again and again, had
been compelled to act under the Gray Seal's orders, under
his orders; who, only that afternoon, had received her in-
structions, or, perhaps better, warning from him over the
telephone!
"It's too easy!" scoffed Smarlinghue, and grinned broadly.
"All anybody's got to do that wants the Gray Seal is to go
out on the corner and whistle for him.”
"My Gawd!” The exclamation came piteously. She
wrung her hands the harder together.
"Well," said Jimmie Dale, still facetiously, “what's the
idea, then? Do you think just because he rough-housed me
here one night that he left his calling card, and wrote his
address on it before he went away? Or maybe you think he
took his mask off, and says: 'Smarly, drop around any after-
noon for a cup of tea; I'll always be at home—to you! Well,
he didn't! There ain't a bull or a lag that ain't been hunting
him for years—and they're still hunting! How'd you expect
me to find him?”
She seemed hardly to be paying any attention. Her fingers
were working nervously with her shawl, now loosening it,
now tightening it around her throat; and she still kept on
glancing in all directions furtively around her.
"Smarly, for Gawd's sake, listen !" she burst out wildly.
"I ain't askin' youse to find him. I'm askin' youse to help
me. I got to have some one I can trust. Mabbe youse won't
have to do nothin' at all. Youse won't see him ; it'll only be
on de telephone. 1-I've been workin' wid him for weeks
now."
idea, then ? cbt that he left hiway? Or maybeund any after-


268 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
"And suppose he don't ring up at all?" inquired Smarling-
hue.
“I dunno!” Mother Margot's face seemed to whiten a
little. "My Gawd, Smarly, I dunno-dat's wot's got me so
scared. I ain't even sayin' he will; 1- I'm only hopin'. It's
de only chance I got. I know mabbe where I could find him
a couple of hours from now, but it'll be too late den. I-I
can't do nothin' more, Smarly, can I? I can't do nothin'
more. If he don't telephone, de only chance I got is to try
an’ make him believe I did me best-dat's all! An' if he
don't believe me, I–I guess I goes out for keeps.”
Jimmie Dale for a moment appeared to consider the mat-
ter.
"Tank as dey, dat de Grench
"I ain't quite sure I get you,” he said slowly at last, "except
that it looks to me like, between the two of them, it don't
make much difference whether you're coming or going. And
this telephone stunt looks like a long shot to me. But I don't
see where I get hurt any, and if it's going to ease your mind
I'll stand in. So what's the message I'm to give if he tele-
phones?”
Mother Margot's face brightened.
“Tank God for youse, Smarly!" she faltered. “Youse're
as white as dey makes 'em. Youse just say dat de message
is from me, an' dat de Voice is goin' to pull de big bump
to-night, an' to watch French Jeff down at de White Rat.
Y'understand, Smarly?”.
Jimmie Dale shook his head.
"No; I don't,” he said. “But if he does, it's all right, I
suppose. I'm satisfied. I'm not for mixing in and getting
my hair singed. But if he asks me what the bump is, and
what time it's going to bust loose, what do I say?”.
"Nothin'," said Mother Margot. “Dere ain't nothin' more
to tell him, 'cause dat's all I knows myself; but I knows it's
de big showdown all right, an' de dope is straight. He won't
need nothin' more, I guess, if he wants to butt in."
Jimmie Dale nodded indifferently. It was precisely what
he wanted to know the exact extent of the old hag's in-
formation.


IN THE SANCTUARY
269
Mother Margot shuffled her feet nervously.
"I got to go, Smarly,” she said anxiously. “De Dago's
runnin' me pushcart for me for de rest of de night, but he
don't know nothin' about dis, so don't youse give him de
high sign. Youse understand about de side door in de lane?"
"Sure!” said Smarlinghue. “And while we're standing
here talking maybe he's telephoned already and pulled a
bone."
Mother Margot shook her head.
“Dat don't matter," she said. "He knows Mezzo don't
always hear, an' sometimes it's hard to get an answer. If he
was tryin' to get me, he'll try again until he does.” She
hesitated, drew her shawl tightly about her head again, took
a step toward the door, and once more hesitated. “Gawd
bless youse, Smarly!” she said brokenly. “Mabbe youse
t'inks youse does, but youse don't know wot youse're doin'
for me to-night. Mabbe I'll pull out of dis alive, an' mabbe
I won't, but don't youse ever forget, Smarly, if youse never
sees me again, dat dere ain't no one in dis world means
anythin' to Mother Margot like youse does, Smarly. An'-
an- " Her voice broke.
She was crying. Jimmie Dale started forward impulsively
as he saw the old shoulders shake, and a tear, followed by
another, trickle unchecked down her cheek. But she turned
her head quickly away, and scuffled hurriedly toward the
door before he had reached her.
But at the door she turned again.
"Gawd bless youse, Smarly!" she called again—and closed
the door behind her.


AT “THE WHITE RAT”
271
that he is
at she is
Londoke
to the
than he could afford, after what she had said, to go to The
White Rat as Smarlinghue. She was as likely to be there as
not. If she saw Smarlinghue there it would be - Well,
she would never again after that have need to fear the Gray
Seal! A hint that Smarlinghue was not what he seemed
would be the end, swift and inevitable, of the Gray Seal and
Jimmie Dale!
He nodded sharply to himself as he stripped off his ragged
attire, and, quickly now, removing the little pieces of wax
from nostrils and from beneath the lips, that distorted the
contour of his face, and removing, too, the stain of make-up,
began to dress again as Jimmie Dale in the carefully folded
suit which he took from the hiding place behind the base-
board. Again he nodded to himself. Tweeds to-night. It
was fortunate! He had naturally been wearing tweeds that
afternoon when he had left his house. The White Rat was
not usually frequented by gentlemen in evening dress!
A minute, two, three passed. The gas jet, spitting like an
angry cat, became suddenly silent. The room was in dark-
ness, save for a queer, nebulous shaft of night light that came
in through the top-light high up over the French doors that
opened on the small, ill-kept courtyard without. And now
a shadow moved and bulked itself against the French doors,
and one of the French doors opened without sound and closed
again, and the shadow crept along the wall of the building,
and strangely, like an apparition, disappeared through the
fence that bordered the lane.
A moment more, and Jimmie Dale, as though Smarlinghue
had never existed, was walking quietly along the street. His
mind was working now with cool, judicial precision, sifting,
weighing, appraising the factors of the problem before him.
Mother Margot would not be near Thompson Street again
to-night. If the Gray Seal's hand appeared to-night, it would
be no more than she expected. Whether it was as the Gray
Seal or as Smarlinghue that first he next saw Mother Margot,
the statement that the Gray Seal had phoned and received his
information was wholly in accord with the old hag's own
suggestion. He, Jimmie Dale, was free to go at once to The
The net
ement


AT “THE WHITE RAT”
273
credited with playing big games for big stakes. That he
was successful was evidenced by the fact that for years now
he had carried on business without coming under the ban of
the police.
Jimmie Dale frowned. He, like the rest of the underworld,
for his eyes were Smarlinghue's now, could only view the
man in the large; there were no details to the picture. And
this was so, naturally enough, because French Jeff confined
himself strictly to his own foreign connections, and stood
wholly aloof from local entanglements no matter how allur-
ing the promise of their reward might be. What then was
the Phantom's interest in this man to-night? Had French
Jeff at last broken his rule and gone in on some deal, working
hand in glove with the Phantom; or was the Phantom pre-
paring, as he so often did, to pick the ripened plums from
another's tree? Or was it-
Jimmie Dale had halted before an uninviting three-story
frame building on the corner of an equally uninviting street.
A sign, somewhat battered and aping the Continental style,
swung in the breeze over the front door. It bore the design
of an animal, its species none too easily recognisable, done in
white on a green background; the lettering, however, below
this inartistic effort was informative: THE WHITE RAT.
Within, as could be seen from the street, the ground floor
was a sort of combination restaurant and bar. A few cus-
tomers occupied tables; a few more were at the bar. Jimmie
Dale's slouch hat was pulled rakishly down over his eyes,
his cravat flashily tucked into the bosom of his shirt, as he
stepped now inside, and, walking up to the bar, ordered a
drink. He glanced around him nonchalantly. He had never
been in the place before, but in common with everybody else
in the underworld he knew the fat proprietor by sight.
French Jeff was not in evidence.
"Ain't the boss around?” inquired Jimmie Dale casually
out of the corner of his mouth, as the barkeeper slid a glass
toward him across the bar.
"Sure! He's upstairs on de office," replied the man, evi-


276 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
What time was it? It had been well after ten o'clock when
Mother Margot had come to the Sanctuary; it must be long
after eleven now. He began to know not so much a sense
of impatience as one of disquiet. It was still early yet, of
course, and the hours, most likely of all the twenty-four for
criminal activities, were still to come, but somehow the
pig-like serenity of the fat Frenchman disturbed him.
Still the minutes dragged by. Another quarter of an hour
passed. And then Jimmie Dale suddenly straightened up
alertly. There was a footstep now on the stairs; and now
it came along the hall. Jimmie Dale retreated a little from
the door, his automatic in his hand.
It was one of the waiters from downstairs. The man
passed into the other room.
“It's time to go, monsieur," he heard the waiter say in
French.
French Jeff, with a grunt, roused himself.
"All right, Emile,” he said shortly.
The waiter left the room and went downstairs again.
French Jeff spent a moment at his desk, then closed it
down, picked up the black handbag from the chair, extin-
guished the light, and left the room.
Jimmie Dale stole out into the darkened corridor. French
Jeff descended the stairs, and went out through the side door.
Another minute and Jimmie Dale, too, had gained the street,
and crossing to the opposite side took up the fat proprietor's
trail.
It led to the nearest subway station, and an uptown train.
French Jeff got off at the Grand Central Station, and Jimmie
Dale followed. At a ticket window, French Jeff bought a
ticket and berth on the midnight train for Boston. Jimmie
Dale, for the first time in evidence, and now at the other's
elbow, made exactly the same purchase—but on Jimmie
Dale's lips now there was a smile of almost self-pity.
"If I'm going where I think I am," confided Jimmie Dale
softly to himself, as he followed the other through the gates
and to the Pullman, “it'll be a rather expensive ride for the


AT “THE WHITE RAT” 277
mileage—but the gatemen are inviolable and the porter
might not have stood for a bribe.”
The berths in the car were all made up. The fat little
Frenchman swished down the aisle, waddling after the
porter. Jimmie Dale, finding his berth to be opposite that
of French Jeff, sat down on the edge of it, and drew the cur-
tains together in front of him. A few minutes passed. The
train pulled out. A wry smile began to settle on Jimmie
Dale's lips—and at 125th Street it had hardened into lines
of grim, unmirthful chagrin.
French Jeff had undressed and gone to bed, and the car
was already reverberating to the fat man's snores.
Jimmie Dale got off the train.
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- XXVII —
THE LAIR
NIGHT-LIPPED, Jimmie Dale stared out at the black,
flying walls as the subway train roared its way back
to lower New York. He had been properly done!
There could be no question about that. But by whom? And
why? What did it mean? Intuition, even back there in The
White Rat, had warned him that something was wrong, but
he would in no way have been justified in being swayed
wholly by intuition. He could not in justice blame himself
for that. What was it? What was the meaning of it?
Something had happened somewhere—but not at The White
Rat. And he had been very neatly side-tracked. All that
was obvious.
Was it Mother Margot? He shook his head. She had
never yet double-crossed him, and he did not believe that she
would dare to do so. Even her visit to the Sanctuary to-
night, and her very evident wholesome respect for the Gray
Seal, not to say fear, was almost proof in itself, it would
seem, that she had not deliberately tried to mislead him.
What, then? There seemed to be only one logical explana-
tion left. The Phantom. It would not have been altogether
a new move on the Phantom's part, for, while not wholly
analogous, the man had in a way tried the same game before.
The Phantom knew only too well, and to his cost, that there
had been a leak somewhere in his entourage, a leak that had
brought the Gray Seal very inopportunely on his heels more
than once. But to-night that entourage, in view of the fact
that the rest were dead and that the Kitten was being hunted
mercilessly by his own fellow crooks of the underworld, was
reduced now to Mother Margot alone. Therefore, if the
278


THE LAIR
281
ing it horought nossides. He and the wai
run to French Jeff and The White Rat? How could it have ?
And yet-
His eyes swept the opening, and the wall adjacent to it,
above and on both sides. He understood now, of course.
And it brought no sense of self-reproof that, though know-
ing it had existed somewhere here, he had not, in the times
he had searched before, been able to find it. It was clever,
ingenious, a replica almost of the old Crime Club with its
false, movable walls, though here not nearly so elaborate-
but perhaps even built by the same men, at that, as one of
their outposts, since Clarke, alias Wizard Marre, who had
been the Phantom's confederate in the murder of Jason
Lane, had been a member of that original organisation. A
dado of cheap, painted burlap at the height of some five feet
ran around the room; this was surmounted by a wide mould-
ing, and the whole divided into oblong panels by vertical,
though narrower, strips of moulding again. It was one of
these oblong sections that now had disappeared into the floor,
disclosing an inner wall, that was obviously the real wall of
the room, set back perhaps slightly more than two feet from
the false wall with the dado. This made a little passageway
within, so that while he, Jimmie Dale, might have tapped the
entire length of the wall in an effort to discover the opening
by the sense of sound, in no place would it have sounded
more hollow than in any other; and, again, the mouldings
covered the joints, and the section slid up and down behind
them, so that unless they had been ripped off bodily it would
have been impossible to
His face grew harder. That was what he had meant to do
to-night, wreck the room if necessary, throw the caution that
before had actuated him to the winds; but to-night all lay
there open before him, starkly, vauntingly open. It was
obvious enough now. The section slid up and down through
the floor and- Up and down! That was what Bunty
Myers had said. But Bunty Myers had said too that she
didn't know because it was in the next house. That pas-
sage there! Invitingly open now! It could only lead to one
place then the next house-and there was only one next


282 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
1 foro touch wiatter whind the intrap! w
house on this side. The other tenement! A trap! Well,
he had come for this, hadn't he?-to find the trap, no matter
what the consequences, no matter what the cost, if it would
but bring him into touch with the Phantom.
He stepped forward now silently across the room, and,
with his flashlight switched off, knelt down at the opening.
The passage in there was very narrow, certainly quite long,
and certainly inky black. One could therefore fairly expect
that somewhere in the passage between here and the other
tenement there would be a light; and if so, and if it were
lighted now, it would disclose for the benefit of the “quarry"
any "trapper” who might be lurking there. Also if there
were a light it would naturally be readily accessible from the
entrance here.
Half crouched, he leaned forward into the opening, and
felt inside, up and down along the edges of the wall. His
fingers encountered a switch button. He pressed it now-
but instead of a light showing anywhere, the movable sec-
tion of the wall under him began to rise. He jabbed at the
switch quickly again, even as he flung himself clear of the
opening, and then found that the section had receded once
more to its original position below the level of the baseboard.
Jimmie Dale drew in his breath sharply. So that was it!
The thing was electrically controlled. That was plain enough,
and from the inside there was no concealment of how it was
set in motion; but how was it operated from within the room?
He might not have been able in his several previous searches
to have located the position of the opening, but he was quite
certain that had there been a concealed switch, say, any-
where along the wall under the dado, or at the edges of the
mouldings, he would have found it, for his fingers had felt
over every inch of that space.
He shrugged his shoulders. Well, it didn't matter now,
did it, since some one else had supplied the “open sesame!"
And since there was no other light-
His body well back from the opening, he reached his hand
inside, and, pointing his flashlight parallel with the passage in
the direction of the other tenement, flung a beam of light


THE LAIR
285
The man laughed. It seemed to carry a shudder in its
depths. It echoed around the room in a strangled, horrible
way.
"Dat's enough!" screamed the Kitten. "Youse're de guy
dat's been after him for weeks. Youse're de guy he's afraid
of. Mabbe dey've got him, but I ain't takin' no chances, for
if dey ain't, youse will. Damn him! It was Laroque dat
give me dis—in dere—in de passage. It was Laroque dat
plugged me cold, an—” He caught at his throat, choking,
struggling for breath.
"Laroque !” exclaimed Jimmie Dale tensely. “Do you
know what you are saying—that it was Gentleman Laroque
who shot you?”
The Kitten clutched at Jimmie Dale's arm, dragging him-
self up again.
“Yes, I know wot I'm sayin'.” He was whispering
hoarsely now. "Listen! Mabbe youse heard I was up
against it wid a gang dat was after me, mabbe youse didn't-
it doesn't matter. I hid since yesterday. To-night dey nosed
me out, an'—an' I had to beat it for me life. I didn't have
much start. I pinched a car, but dey got another—see? I
didn't have nowheres to go but here, den-I thought La-
roque'd hide me—it was de only chance I had.”
He fought for his breath, paused, and struggled on again,
his words coming more thickly and with greater effort.
"I left de car around de corner, an' came in here. La-
roque an' Mother Margot was here. I—I was tellin' 'em
about it. I thought I'd given de gang de slip. But I hadn't.
Dey came smashin' at de door. Laroque didn't say nothin',
only he looked wicked when he jumped for de electric wall
bracket an' gave dat brass fittin' against de wall a twist.
Dat opened de door in de wall—see? 'Come on!' he says
den to Mother Margot an' me. 'De two of youse! Quick!'
“De gang was bustin' in de door of de room by now, an’
dey saw us. We followed Laroque through de wall, an' he
pushes de switch inside an' de wall closes up. It-it was
black in dere. My Gawd, it was black! An' Laroque kind
of laughs. 'Dat was a close squeak, an' mabbe we ain't safe


TOLL
293
BLIND PETER'S
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the Phantom know of the existence of this exit? A trapped
rat, was he fighting for escape this way?
Jimmie Dale's lips were a thin line. Well, the Phantom
would not escape this way! Whatever the penalty that he,
Jimmie Dale, might pay, the Phantom's career ended to-night.
That was what he was here for. No matter what happened
to himself, the price would be a small and pitiful thing to
pay. To-morrow, no, to-night, the Tocsin, the woman he
loved, she who in her great unselfish courage, aye and her
love, had chosen to risk death alone, to fight out her fight
alone that he too might not be sacrificed, would be free, free
from peril, free to live in God's sunshine as-
He was at the door now. The sounds from the other side
had risen into almost riot noise. The panel here—it used to
move a little so that one intending entrance might first sat-
isfy himself that he was not observed. Yes, it still moved-
the space of a few inches.
He could see through-into a small room, garishly ap-
pointed, its roof supported by ornamental rafters from which
hung several lanterns of curious, antique design, its walls
draped with oriental hangings, the whole furnished in a
sort of barbaric luxury. It was Blind Peter's private retreat
--and naturally again offered a further bulwark and protec-
tion against the detection of the hidden entrance.
The door opening out on the other side of this room and
directly opposite the one behind which Jimmie Dale stood
was closed, but now suddenly it burst open. Shots, yells,
curses, rose crescendo in a hideous uproar. A figure reeled
in, stumbled, fell upon its knees, and began to drag itself
away from the threshold. The old hag! Mother Margot!
But Jimmie Dale's eyes rested for but an instant on her.
There was another figure, the figure of a man, on the thresh-
old itself now, a man at bay, fighting, pumping his shots from
his automatic, cursing as he fought-Gentleman Laroque,
alias Isaac Shiftel, alias Limpy Mack, alias the Phantom!
Outside, beyond that door, Jimmie Dale could not see.
He could only hear-above the shots—the oaths and yells
from, it seemed, a multitude of throats, like the screech of
tertal hangings, Blind Peter's ples and protec-
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nie Kit
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cit. Die


294 JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM CLUE
Jullet struck hintom half spurending there on #1
beasts, like animals giving tongue to a blood lust that was
upon them.
It was vary plain! They had dug the Phantom out of
wherever he had been in hiding in Blind Peter's here, and
had driven him in a running fight to the end of the chain
of underground rooms and passages. It was the end! The
Phantom could go no further-save through the door behind
which he, Jimmie Dale, stood. And through that door the
Phantom, for the Tocsin's sake, would never pass while he,
Jimmie Dale, lived !
The end! Yes—but it was ending there on the threshold
now. The Phantom half spun around, and screamed as a
bullet struck him, made a desperate effort to slam shut the
door and, instead, crumpled to the floor.
A strange, queer look was on Jimmie Dale's face. His
jaws were clamped, his features set like iron. The end!
Well, he could go now. Go the way he had come-unseen.
It was over! The Tocsin was free. And he too was free,
free of hurt or harm, free to the years that stretched ahead
where only love and happiness should hold sway, and the-
“Kill 'em! ... Bump 'em both off! ... The cursed
snitches. ..."
Shots seemed to be still pouring a leaden hail into the
prostrate form of the Phantom on the threshold, as he lay
there, sprawled out, a dead thing now. Then a rush! Faces
appeared at the doorway-Steenie's! The man levelled his
revolver at the old hag on the floor as she crawled for pro-
tection toward the end of a sort of divan at the side of the
room.
The mind works swiftly, swift beyond all measure of
time. She was only an old hag, an abandoned thing steeped
in her crimes, the last of the Phantom's satellites—all the
rest had gone—it was justice that she should go too. What
had he to do with it? The road to life and happiness lay
the other way. Suppose she was a woman, suppose it was
murder that would be done in the next second, what had he
to do with it! What had
Through the opening in the panel Jimmie Dale fired. This


BLIND PETER'S
295
as the
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ng, weake shots ware angle his men Werond, of cote exposing
to :
revolver in Steenie Klotz's outstretched hand clattered to
the floor, and the man with a yell of mingled pain, fury and
surprise leaped back from the open doorway—and with him,
from this new attack, the others took hasty cover, leaving
the doorway clear again.
“Quick! This way, Mother Margot!" Jimmie Dale
called out sharply. “Don't stand up! Crawl!"
He fired steadily, coolly, sweeping the opposite doorway
with his bullets—working with pick-lock in his other hand at
the door behind which he stood. The old hag came crawl-
ing, weakly it seemed, across the floor, nearer and nearer to
him. The shots were pouring into the room again-but they
were coming at an angle. He laughed a little-without
mirth. Steenie Klotz and his men were crouched on both
sides of the door casing out there beyond, of course, and
they could not fire in a direct line now without exposing
themselves. But how much could they see? The danger
would come when he opened the door for Mother Margot,
and when he could not for the moment command the other
doorway.
It would be a race for it then-nothing else.
"You fool!" an inner voice snarled at him. "Don't you
know the Phantom is dead! You fool, to have risked this
now! You poor, feeble, quixotic fool!”
The old hag was close to the door now. He called to her
again.
"When I open the door, jump for it!” he said grimly.
"Are you ready?"
He caught a faint, affirmative reply. He fired at the oppo-
site doorway again, then closed the panel; and then with a
sudden wrench pulled the door before him halfway open;
and, as Mother Margot scurried through, he flung it shut
again, locked it, and reaching out in the darkness for the
old hag, jerked her forward, making for the rear of the coal
bin. She staggered weakly, making a strange, half crooning
noise. If he could win behind the bin to the stairs, there
would be comparative safety, time enough at least to get
to the lane above. Blind Peter, if he, Jimmie Dale, knew
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EXXIX
THE PORT OF DAWN
the door
et more, i
He pasi
UFFLED voices reached Jimmie Dale's ears from
below. He staggered on upward, making what
speed he could. It was not easy with this burden
in his arms. In the darkness he gained the cellar; and from
the cellar emerged on the small backyard, and thence on the
lane.
Here, he drew a great, gasping breath of relief. He was
safe so far, but he had still to get away from the immediate
vicinity of that cellar entranceway. Blind Peter, at any
moment, might solve the problem for Steenie Klotz and his
ace, he heart
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- the stairs
He went on again, running heavily, lurching under his
load. Thank God for the darkness! He looked, as he ran,
for some place of shelter or hiding. He could not go out
into the open street with Mother Margot unconscious in his
arms—certainly not anywhere in this neighbourhood; nor
could he run on indefinitely like this, whether by lane or
street.
Fifty yards, a hundred he covered. There were no sounds
of pursuit, and now he had no further anxiety on that score,
for he was already too far away for them to pick up the
trail if he could only find temporary cover somewhere until
Mother Margot's condition, which must necessarily govern
his future movements, could be
She was stirring in his arms now uneasily, commencing
to mutter incoherent words. He kept straining his eyes to
right and left as he ran—and suddenly swerved close up
against the left-hand side of the fence. This would do ad-
mirably. He could ask for nothing better. There was a
297


THE PORT OF DAWN
299
“Yes,” she said ; “but I was always Mother Margot-after
Silver Mag. I was Mother Margot when they forced me
into hiding the time before this. Don't you remember in the
boat, Jimmie, that I would not tell you even then, even when
Clarke was dead and you thought everything was all right
again, how or where I had lived all through that time?"
“Yes, I remember," said Jimmie Dale; and then, with a
quick, anxious cry: “And I remember now that you've
been hurt, wounded, I am afraid, and need— "
“No,” she said, and shook her head. “It is true that I
was hit with something, a heavy stool that one of those
gangsters threw when the fight first started at the upper end
of Blind Peter's cellars, and it made me a little dizzy and
giddy perhaps. But I am not hurt. I am afraid I only
fainted, Jimmie, just-just like a woman.” She laughed a
little, bravely, tremulously, as she looked around her. "I
know you said we were safe now, and I know that the
Phantom is dead, but I'm all right again, and I'm able to go
on. We can't be very far away from "
"We're safer here just now, quite safe," Jimmie Dale an-
swered. "If we went out we might only invite a chase and
have to run for it, and you haven't got your strength back
yet. And”-he too laughed a little tremulously now—“be-
sides I want you—like this, Marie-like this for a little
while."
Her head was on his shoulder now. He brushed back the
hair from her forehead, and kissed her, and laid his face
against hers.
"Like this.” Her voice broke a little. "God is very good,
Jimmie. I–I did not dare to hope that it would be like this
when I sent you to The White Rat to-night.”
"That was a plant!” said Jimmie Dale a little ruefully.
"Why did you send me there?”
She drew slightly away from him so that she could lift
her hands and clasp and hold his face between them.
"What else could I do, Jimmie?” she said with a catch in
her voice. "You—you were so persistent. I had to get rid
of you. I knew you were going to those rooms to-night.


HVTTY
301
THE PORT OF DAWN
e Planner
sure that he did not escape. I-I am not sure that I ex-
pected to—to live through it myself. If he had any sus-
picion aroused it,” Her voice broke suddenly. “But-
but he hadn't, Jimmie, and—and you must know what hap-
pened afterward since you, too, went to Blind Peter's."
“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale simply. "I know. And I know
a great deal more now. I know now that the night I caught
you, as I thought, double-crossing Limpy Mack, you were
trying to save what you could of old Mrs. Kinsey's money.
And I understand now that the reason you did not know
when I was wounded was because it happened at the time
when you, as Mother Margot, were away. And that night
in the tunnel at Morley's place, when you wouldn't let me
show any light or come near you, you were Mother Margot,
weren't you?”
“Yes, Jimmie," she whispered.
For a moment he was silent, and then suddenly he cried
out, and in his voice was the yearning of the days and weeks
when it had seemed this moment could never be:
"Marie! ... Marie! ... Marie! ..."
He was holding her close to him again, his arms around
her, her face against his own. And neither spoke now. Here
in the shed it was very dark and very silent; but radiant in
their souls was the glad sunrise of a new life, and in their
hearts was song, like the song of springtime, a song of great
joy, and of peace.
For they had come at last to the Port of Dawn.
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