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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Adventures of Jimmie Dale," Frank L. Packard weaves a thrilling narrative that amalgamates elements of detective fiction, romance, and adventure. The story follows the enigmatic Jimmie Dale, a wealthy socialite who leads a double life as the Gray Seal, a master of disguise and escapades. Packard's prose is characterized by its brisk pacing, clever dialogue, and vivid descriptions, effectively immersing readers in the vibrant settings of early 20th century New York. As a representative of the pulp fiction genre, this work explores themes of morality, justice, and identity, positioning it within a broader literary context that reflects the societal complexities of its time. Frank L. Packard, a Canadian author known for his early contributions to the adventure and detective genres, drew upon his experiences in journalism and his affinity for urban life to craft Jimmie Dale's character. His keen observations of the human condition and the bustling city landscape informed the intricate plots and rich character development found in this work. Packard's passion for storytelling and his fascination with the psychological nuances of his characters are evident throughout the narrative, reflecting a profound understanding of duality and human nature. Highly recommended for fans of classic detective fiction, "The Adventures of Jimmie Dale" stands as a remarkable exploration of intrigue, ingenuity, and the complexity of human identity. Packard's engaging storytelling and masterful characterizations invite readers to accompany Jimmie on his adventures, making it a compelling read for those who seek both entertainment and a deeper reflection on the intricacies of life and morality. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Adventures of Jimmie Dale
Table of Contents
Introduction
Behind a gentleman’s immaculate facade, a clandestine persona stalks New York’s night, testing how far wit, nerve, and an uneasy sense of justice can bend the line between outlawry and duty, as bank vaults, back alleys, and clubrooms become stages for disguises, break-ins, and close escapes, and as an unseen prompter, speaking through cryptic messages, tightens a web of risks, secrets, and obligations that threatens to strip away every mask and force a reckoning with the price of doing the right thing by the wrong means.
Frank L. Packard’s The Adventures of Jimmie Dale belongs to early twentieth-century crime and adventure fiction, set largely in New York City and shaped by the brisk momentum of magazine-serial storytelling that flourished in the 1910s. Packard, a Canadian writer known for popular thrillers, drew on the period’s appetite for urban intrigue, disguises, and technological ingenuity. The book presents the gentleman-thief tradition in a distinctly American metropolis, filtering the glamour of high society through the grit of warehouses, tenements, and night streets. Its publication context situates it alongside the rise of pulp magazines, where fast-paced plots and cliffhangers kept readers eager for the next installment.
At its core is Jimmie Dale, a wealthy young clubman whose alter ego, the Gray Seal, is famed and feared for audacious nocturnal forays that leave a small gray emblem as a signature. The city’s underworld regards him as a master cracksman; the authorities hunt him as a criminal; yet a stream of urgent, anonymous notes from an enigmatic correspondent—known only as the Tocsin—draws him into missions aimed at thwarting blackmailers, swindlers, and worse. The initial setup frames every exploit as a moral puzzle: intervene without being caught, outwit both lawbreakers and the law, and keep his private world from collapsing.
Readers encounter a narrative that moves with headlong velocity from salons to shadowed doorways, built of tightly staged set pieces, narrow escapes, and clever ruses. The prose favors immediacy and suspense, often closing chapters on peril or revelation that launches the next chase. Because the material emerged in an era of serial publication, the book reads as a sequence of interlocking adventures, each escalating the pressures on its hero. Disguises, safecracking, and misdirection supply technical interest, while the atmosphere leans nocturnal and charged, attentive to the city’s rhythms—carriages and motorcars, telephones and safes, whispered passwords and the glow of streetlamps.
Packard probes identity as performance: the polished heir, the invisible intruder, and the improviser who must be both to survive. The Gray Seal’s signature announces complicity with crime even as his actions redirect it, raising questions about ends and means, reputation, and responsibility. The book also explores class and space—the ease of a Fifth Avenue address against the precarity of those targeted by rackets—and the tools of a modern metropolis, from security devices to rapid communication, that make deception possible and detection perilous. Trust is provisional, secrecy is currency, and moral clarity is hard-won, if it can be won at all.
These elements help explain the character’s enduring appeal and the book’s resonance today. The Adventures of Jimmie Dale anticipates later traditions of masked vigilance and conflicted heroism, inviting readers to weigh personal ethics against institutional authority. Its puzzles showcase resourcefulness rather than brute force, and its tensions—privacy, surveillance, inequality, and the seductions of notoriety—feel strikingly contemporary. For modern audiences, the novel offers both historical texture and a blueprint for a certain kind of urban thriller: swift, cunning, and morally entangled. It rewards readers who enjoy cat-and-mouse stratagems, layered identities, and the spectacle of a city that is both stage and adversary.
Approached as an atmospheric gateway to early twentieth-century popular fiction, this volume remains accessible: it is clear in stakes, generous with action, and careful to balance danger with ingenuity. New readers can enter without specialized background; familiarity with period slang or technology enriches the experience but is not required. What matters is the pressure-cooker premise—secret instructions, mounting peril, and a protagonist whose best weapon is forethought. As part of a larger cycle of Jimmie Dale adventures, it also offers a satisfying foundation for further reading, while standing on its own as a portrait of a city and a conscience in motion.
Synopsis
Frank L. Packard’s The Adventures of Jimmie Dale introduces a celebrated figure of early crime fiction: a wealthy New York socialite who leads a covert second life as the Gray Seal, a master safecracker. Publicly a leisurely heir moving through exclusive clubs, Jimmie privately deploys expert tools, keen observation, and disciplined nerve to penetrate the city’s criminal enterprises. Once notorious for leaving a small gray seal at the scene of his exploits, he now uses that signature to misdirect and expose wrongdoers. The novel begins by outlining his background, his cultivated persona, and the pattern of seemingly audacious crimes that conceal deliberate acts of restitution and justice.
A secret influence governs Jimmie’s operations: letters from a mysterious woman known only as the Tocsin. Her messages, arriving by hidden channels and on a strict timetable, alert him to imminent crimes, frame-ups, or predatory schemes. To execute her directives, Jimmie withdraws to the Sanctuary, a grim Bowery hideout stocked with disguises, tools, and contingency plans. There, he transforms into Larry the Bat, an underworld identity that grants him access to the city’s shadowed corners. The novel establishes these mechanisms early, presenting a careful system of aliases, signals, and safehouses that let Jimmie cross social borders without exposing his true name.
Early episodes follow a pattern of intervention. Jimmie preempts robberies, recovers securities, and overturns blackmail plots, each time leaving the Gray Seal’s emblem—now a calling card for retribution rather than theft. The press and police, fixated on the legend, pursue the elusive cracksman, while Jimmie maintains his unruffled society veneer. A friend in journalism, Carruthers of the News-Argus, tracks the story with professional zeal, adding pressure and irony to Jimmie’s double life. Through tightly staged nocturnal raids and narrow escapes, the novel emphasizes preparation and restraint: Jimmie takes nothing for himself, carefully redirecting evidence to clear innocents and expose the culpable.
What begins as discrete cases broadens into a sustained campaign against a hidden syndicate known as the Crime Club. The Tocsin’s notes signal that these crimes, scams, and extortions share a central intelligence and a common purse. Patterns emerge in pawnshops, tenements, and financial offices, pointing to a coordinated enterprise that corrupts both street and boardroom. The narrative gradually pivots from standalone rescues to strategic disruption, tracing a network that controls information, money, and fear. Jimmie realizes that challenging isolated villains will not suffice; he must follow the clues to the organization’s nerve center without compromising his anonymity or the Tocsin’s safety.
Operating as Larry the Bat, Jimmie penetrates saloons, gambling rooms, and gang haunts, piecing together the syndicate’s methods. The Sanctuary becomes both asset and liability as its security is tested. The Tocsin’s warnings grow more urgent, hinting that time and secrecy are running short. Jimmie deciphers ledgers, shadows couriers, and conducts decoys that unsettle the underworld. The narrative highlights the tension between meticulous planning and the flux of street intelligence, portraying a city where masks are both protection and trap. A turning point arrives when the Tocsin herself seems imperiled, forcing Jimmie to adapt from surgical interventions to a more direct, risk-laden approach.
As the Gray Seal’s legend intensifies, law enforcement and the press tighten their scrutiny. Carruthers narrows his suspicions, and social entanglements threaten to expose Jimmie’s double life at inopportune moments. The book juxtaposes polite drawing rooms with midnight rooftops, hidden panels with coded letters, showing how proximity and timing keep Jimmie ahead by inches. He stages operations that appear as crimes but function as disclosures, leaving evidence where it will prompt official action. The Gray Seal’s emblem becomes a strategic device, shaping narrative and public reaction. Each success amplifies risk; each escape requires new improvisation. The campaign’s breadth hints at a decisive confrontation ahead.
Jimmie’s investigation converges on traces of a central headquarters and a circle of influential conspirators. He manipulates rivalries, stages diversions, and leverages the city’s rumor mills to isolate targets. The Tocsin’s letters continue to arrive at critical junctures, refining objectives while concealing her identity and motives. Jimmie weighs revealing himself to potential allies against guarding the fragile balance that keeps him effective. The Gray Seal myth, once a playful flourish, hardens into an instrument for unmasking the Crime Club’s hierarchy. Momentum builds through coordinated strikes—exposing records, intercepting valuables, and sabotaging plans—without announcing the final blow or foreclosing the mystery’s human dimensions.
The climax unfolds through a sequence of high-stakes intrusions, close pursuit, and rapidly shifting vantage points. A key break-in forces Jimmie to choose between securing evidence and preserving lives, underscoring the moral calculus that has guided him throughout. The Crime Club’s defenses and countermeasures reveal the scale of the organization and the peril of confronting it alone. Outcomes hinge on timing, disguise, and the Tocsin’s last-minute intelligence. The immediate crisis is resolved in a way that preserves essential mysteries, avoiding a reductive finish. The narrative concludes its central arc while leaving room for the Gray Seal’s legend—and questions about loyalty and identity—to persist.
The Adventures of Jimmie Dale presents a linked cycle of capers evolving into a sustained assault on systemic crime, anchored by a protagonist who wields skill and secrecy as instruments of restitution. Its central message emphasizes responsibility: talent and privilege impose obligations in a city where law, press, and underworld intersect. The book balances ingenuity with restraint, favoring restoration over revenge and spectacle in service of truth. It closes by affirming the durability of masks and the costs of maintaining them, setting the stage for further exploits. Readers are left with the outline of a crusade and the resonance of a legend carefully kept alive.
Historical Context
Frank L. Packard’s The Adventures of Jimmie Dale is set primarily in New York City during the late Progressive Era, roughly the 1900s to the United States’ entry into the First World War in 1917, the year the first volume appeared. The narrative moves between Fifth Avenue drawing rooms and the tenement districts of the Lower East Side, the Bowery, and the West Side docks. Urban modernity defines the milieu: electric lights, telephones, motorcars, the elevated lines, and the subway opened in 1904. Skyscrapers like the Woolworth Building (1913) and private clubs of financiers coexist with alleyway gang haunts, underscoring stark class and spatial divides.
Progressive Era reform (c. 1890s–1920s) forms a decisive backdrop. In New York, anti-corruption drives and social legislation followed exposes by reformers since the Lexow Committee (1894–95) and continued through the Tenement House Act of 1901, Mayor William J. Gaynor’s term (1910–13), and Police Commissioner Arthur Woods’s reorganization (1914–18). Campaigns against vice districts and protection rackets coexisted with persistent political patronage from Tammany Hall. The novel mirrors this tension by staging a metropolis where institutions promise order yet leave gaps the Gray Seal fills, dramatizing the ambivalent space between official reform and entrenched criminal enterprise.
The city’s demography was transformed by mass immigration. Ellis Island processed over 12 million arrivals from 1892 to 1954, with a peak of about 1.3 million in 1907. Newcomers from Southern and Eastern Europe crowded into Lower East Side tenements along Orchard and Hester Streets, often in garment sweatshops with long hours and low pay. Ethnic networks overlapped with mutual-aid societies and, at times, extortion rings known as the Black Hand. Packard’s storyworld, populated by vulnerable workers and predatory gangs, reflects these pressures; Jimmie Dale’s incursions into the slums dramatize elite encounters with immigrant poverty and urban anonymity.
Labor conflict and industrial disaster marked the period. The 1909–1910 “Uprising of the 20,000,” led in part by Clara Lemlich and the ILGWU, won wage and safety concessions in the garment trades. On March 25, 1911, the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in the Asch Building killed 146 workers, prompting the New York State Factory Investigating Commission (1911–1914) under Al Smith and Robert F. Wagner to enact sweeping safety laws on exits, sprinklers, and inspections. The novel’s recurring images of sweatshops, night work, and emergency escapes echo this environment, situating crime and rescue within workplaces where danger and exploitation were routine.
Organized crime and police corruption surged into public view in the 1900s–1910s. The Eastman Gang under “Monk” Eastman and the Five Points Gang under Paul Kelly battled for control of Lower Manhattan, while extortionists targeted small businesses. The 1912 murder of gambler Herman Rosenthal on West 43rd Street, outside the Hotel Metropole, exploded into scandal when gunmen from the Lenox Avenue Gang—“Gyp the Blood” (Harry Horowitz), “Lefty Louie” (Louis Rosenberg), “Dago Frank” (Frank Cirofici), and “Whitey Lewis” (Jacob Seidenschner)—were tried and executed in 1915. Most incendiary was the conviction and July 30, 1915 execution of NYPD Lieutenant Charles Becker, found guilty of arranging Rosenthal’s killing, implicating police protection of gambling houses. Commissioner Rhinelander Waldo resigned amid the turmoil; District Attorney Charles S. Whitman built his reputation on the case and became governor in 1915. Earlier, the department’s Italian Squad under Lieutenant Joseph Petrosino (created in 1908 under Commissioner Theodore A. Bingham) had targeted Black Hand extortion; Petrosino’s assassination in Palermo on March 12, 1909, underscored the transatlantic dimensions of organized crime. These events revealed syndicate-like coordination, political shielding, and the inadequacy of ordinary policing against networked criminals. Packard’s “Crime Club,” a shadowy consortium manipulating both street toughs and respectable fronts, channels this history: a hidden boardroom of crime with tentacles in legitimate businesses and compromised officials. Jimmie Dale’s extra-legal tactics, clandestine disguises, and calling-card “Gray Seal” respond to a civic landscape where formal authority is suspect and justice seems obtainable only through stealth, infiltration, and public exposure—precisely the methods that reform prosecutors and investigative journalists were forced to adopt in the Becker–Rosenthal era.
Financial turbulence shaped elite New York. The Panic of 1907, triggered by a failed corner in United Copper and runs on trusts like Knickerbocker Trust (October 1907), prompted J. P. Morgan’s emergency rescues and led to the Aldrich–Vreeland Act (1908) and the Federal Reserve Act (1913). The Federal Reserve Banks opened in 1914, with Benjamin Strong Jr. at the New York Fed. The novel’s affluent protagonist moves through banking parlors, safe-deposit vaults, and speculative schemes, reflecting anxieties about paper wealth, bearer bonds, and the porous boundary between respectable finance and criminal appropriation.
Modern policing and wartime fears intensified the city’s atmosphere. Fingerprinting replaced the Bertillon system in the 1900s–1910s, and the Bureau of Investigation formed in 1908. NYPD Commissioner Arthur Woods established specialized squads, including a bomb squad in 1914, amid anarchist plots. German sabotage culminated in the Black Tom explosion on July 30, 1916, in New Jersey’s harbor, shattering windows in lower Manhattan and damaging the Statue of Liberty. After April 6, 1917, the Espionage Act heightened surveillance. The novel’s disguises, coded messages, and safecracking echo an arms race of techniques between criminals, police science, and clandestine operatives in a city on alert.
As social and political critique, the book exposes the period’s moral geography: gilded Fifth Avenue privilege abutting unsafe workshops and gang-run alleys. It indicts the incompleteness of Progressive reforms by portraying police compromised by graft, courts constrained by influence, and philanthropy unable to remedy structural neglect. The Gray Seal’s vigilantism functions as a rebuke to unresponsive institutions, dramatizing how concentrated wealth, corrupt intermediaries, and predatory rackets exploit urban anonymity. By navigating both salons and tenements, the narrative challenges a civic order that tolerates squalor and collusion, urging accountability across classes and insisting that justice cannot be outsourced to status or secrecy.
The Adventures of Jimmie Dale
PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE
CHAPTER I
THE GRAY SEAL
Among New York's fashionable and ultra-exclusive clubs, the St. James stood an acknowledged leader—more men, perhaps, cast an envious eye at its portals, of modest and unassuming taste, as they passed by on Fifth Avenue, than they did at any other club upon the long list that the city boasts. True, there were more expensive clubs upon whose membership roll scintillated more stars of New York's social set, but the St. James was distinctive. It guaranteed a man, so to speak—that is, it guaranteed a man to be innately a gentleman. It required money, it is true, to keep up one's membership, but there were many members who were not wealthy, as wealth is measured nowadays—there were many, even, who were pressed sometimes to meet their dues and their house accounts, but the accounts were invariably promptly paid. No man, once in, could ever afford, or ever had the desire, to resign from the St. James Club[1]. Its membership was cosmopolitan; men of every walk in life passed in and out of its doors, professional men and business men, physicians, artists, merchants, authors, engineers, each stamped with the “hall mark” of the St. James, an innate gentleman. To receive a two weeks' out-of-town visitor's card to the St. James was something to speak about, and men from Chicago, St. Louis, or San Francisco spoke of it with a sort of holier-than-thou air to fellow members of their own exclusive clubs, at home again.
Is there any doubt that Jimmie Dale was a gentleman—an INNATE gentleman? Jimmie Dale's father had been a member of the St. James Club, and one of the largest safe manufacturers of the United States, a prosperous, wealthy man, and at Jimmie Dale's birth he had proposed his son's name for membership. It took some time to get into the St. James; there was a long waiting list that neither money, influence, nor pull could alter by so much as one iota. Men proposed their sons' names for membership when they were born as religiously as they entered them upon the city's birth register. At twenty-one Jimmie Dale was elected to membership; and, incidentally, that same year, graduated from Harvard. It was Mr. Dale's desire that his son should enter the business and learn it from the ground up, and Jimmie Dale, for four years thereafter, had followed his father's wishes. Then his father died. Jimmie Dale had leanings toward more artistic pursuits than business. He was credited with sketching a little, writing a little; and he was credited with having received a very snug amount from the combine to which he sold out his safe-manufacturing interests. He lived a bachelor life—his mother had been dead many years—in the house that his father had left him on Riverside Drive, kept a car or two and enough servants to run his menage smoothly, and serve a dinner exquisitely when he felt hospitably inclined.
Could there be any doubt that Jimmie Dale was innately a gentleman?
It was evening, and Jimmie Dale sat at a small table in the corner of the St. James Club dining room. Opposite him sat Herman Carruthers, a young man of his own age, about twenty-six, a leading figure in the newspaper world, whose rise from reporter to managing editor of the morning NEWS-ARGUS[2] within the short space of a few years had been almost meteoric.
They were at coffee and cigars, and Jimmie Dale was leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed interestedly on his guest.
Carruthers, intently engaged in trimming his cigar ash on the edge of the Limoges china saucer of his coffee set, looked up with an abrupt laugh.
“No; I wouldn't care to go on record as being an advocate of crime,” he said whimsically; “that would never do. But I don't mind admitting quite privately that it's been a positive regret to me that he has gone.”
“Made too good 'copy' to lose, I suppose?” suggested Jimmie Dale quizzically. “Too bad, too, after working up a theatrical name like that for him—the Gray Seal[3]—rather unique! Who stuck that on him—you?”
Carruthers laughed—then, grown serious, leaned toward Jimmie Dale.
“You don't mean to say, Jimmie, that you don't know about that, do you?” he asked incredulously. “Why, up to a year ago the papers were full of him.”
“I never read your beastly agony columns[4],” said Jimmie Dale, with a cheery grin.
“Well,” said Carruthers, “you must have skipped everything but the stock reports then[1q].”
“Granted,” said Jimmie Dale. “So go on, Carruthers, and tell me about him—I dare say I may have heard of him, since you are so distressed about it, but my memory isn't good enough to contradict anything you may have to say about the estimable gentleman, so you're safe.”
Carruthers reverted to the Limoges saucer and the tip of his cigar.
“He was the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime,” said Carruthers reminiscently, after a moment's silence. “Jimmie, he was the king-pin of them all. Clever isn't the word for him, or dare-devil isn't either. I used to think sometimes his motive was more than half for the pure deviltry of it, to laugh at the police and pull the noses of the rest of us that were after him. I used to dream nights about those confounded gray seals of his—that's where he got his name; he left every job he ever did with a little gray paper affair, fashioned diamond-shaped, stuck somewhere where it would be the first thing your eyes would light upon when you reached the scene, and—”
“Don't go so fast,” smiled Jimmie Dale. “I don't quite get the connection. What did you have to do with this—er—Gray Seal fellow? Where do you come in?”
“I? I had a good deal to do with him,” said Carruthers grimly. “I was a reporter when he first broke loose, and the ambition of my life, after I began really to appreciate what he was, was to get him—and I nearly did, half a dozen times, only—”
“Only you never quite did, eh?” cut in Jimmie Dale slyly. “How near did you get, old man? Come on, now, no bluffing; did the Gray Seal ever even recognise you as a factor in the hare-and-hound game?”
“You're flicking on the raw, Jimmie,” Carruthers answered, with a wry grimace. “He knew me, all right, confound him! He favoured me with several sarcastic notes—I'll show 'em to you some day—explaining how I'd fallen down and how I could have got him if I'd done something else.” Carruthers' fist came suddenly down on the table. “And I would have got him, too, if he had lived.”
“Lived!” ejaculated Jimmie Dale. “He's dead, then?”
“Yes,” averted Carruthers; “he's dead.”
“H'm!” said Jimmie Dale facetiously. “I hope the size of the wreath you sent was an adequate tribute of your appreciation.”
“I never sent any wreath,” returned Carruthers, “for the very simple reason that I didn't know where to send it, or when he died. I said he was dead because for over a year now he hasn't lifted a finger.”
“Rotten poor evidence, even for a newspaper,” commented Jimmie Dale. “Why not give him credit for having, say—reformed?”
Carruthers shook his head. “You don't get it at all, Jimmie,” he said earnestly. “The Gray Seal wasn't an ordinary crook—he was a classic. He was an artist, and the art of the thing was in his blood. A man like that could no more stop than he could stop breathing—and live. He's dead; there's nothing to it but that—he's dead. I'd bet a year's salary on it.”
“Another good man gone wrong, then,” said Jimmie Dale capriciously. “I suppose, though, that at least you discovered the 'woman in the case'?”
Carruthers looked up quickly, a little startled; then laughed shortly.
“What's the matter?” inquired Jimmie Dale.
“Nothing,” said Carruthers. “You kind of got me for a moment, that's all. That's the way those infernal notes from the Gray Seal used to end up: 'Find the lady, old chap; and you'll get me.' He had a damned patronising familiarity that would make you squirm.”
“Poor old Carruthers!” grinned Jimmie Dale. “You did take it to heart, didn't you?”
“I'd have sold my soul to get him—and so would you, if you had been in my boots,” said Carruthers, biting nervously at the end of his cigar.
“And been sorry for it afterward,” supplied Jimmie Dale.
“Yes, by Jove, you're right!” admitted Carruthers, “I suppose I should. I actually got to love the fellow—it was the GAME, really, that I wanted to beat.”
“Well, and how about this woman? Keep on the straight and narrow path, old man,” prodded Jimmie Dale.
“The woman?” Carruthers smiled. “Nothing doing! I don't believe there was one—he wouldn't have been likely to egg the police and reporters on to finding her if there had been, would he? It was a blind, of course. He worked alone, absolutely alone. That's the secret of his success, according to my way of thinking. There was never so much as an indication that he had had an accomplice in anything he ever did.”
Jimmie Dale's eyes travelled around the club's homelike, perfectly appointed room. He nodded to a fellow member here and there, then his eyes rested musingly on his guest again.
Carruthers was staring thoughtfully at his coffee cup.
“He was the prince of crooks and the father of originality,” announced Carruthers abruptly, following the pause that had ensued. “Half the time there wasn't any more getting at the motive for the curious things he did, than there was getting at the Gray Seal himself.”
“Carruthers,” said Jimmy Dale, with a quick little nod of approval, “you're positively interesting to-night. But, so far, you've been kind of scouting around the outside edges without getting into the thick of it. Let's have some of your experiences with the Gray Seal in detail; they ought to make ripping fine yarns.”
“Not to-night, Jimmie,” said Carruthers; “it would take too long.” He pulled out his watch mechanically as he spoke, glanced at it—and pushed back his chair. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “It's nearly half-past nine. I'd no idea we had lingered so long over dinner. I'll have to hurry; we're a morning paper, you know, Jimmie.”
“What! Really! Is it as late as that.” Jimmie Dale rose from his chair as Carruthers stood up. “Well, if you must—”
“I must,” said Carruthers, with a laugh.
“All right, O slave.” Jimmie Dale laughed back—and slipped his hand, a trick of their old college days together, through Carruthers' arm as they left the room.
He accompanied Carruthers downstairs to the door of the club, and saw his guest into a taxi; then he returned inside, sauntered through the billiard room, and from there into one of the cardrooms, where, pressed into a game, he played several rubbers of bridge before going home.
It was, therefore, well on toward midnight when Jimmie Dale arrived at his house on Riverside Drive, and was admitted by an elderly manservant.
“Hello, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “You still up!”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jason, who had been valet to Jimmie Dale's father before him. “I was going to bed, sir, at about ten o'clock, when a messenger came with a letter. Begging your pardon, sir, a young lady, and—”
“Jason”—Jimmie Dale flung out the interruption, sudden, quick, imperative—“what did she look like?”
“Why—why, I don't exactly know as I could describe her, sir,” stammered Jason, taken aback. “Very ladylike, sir, in her dress and appearance, and what I would call, sir, a beautiful face.”
“Hair and eyes—what color?” demanded Jimmie Dale crisply. “Nose, lips, chin—what shape?”
“Why, sir,” gasped Jason, staring at his master, “I—I don't rightly know. I wouldn't call her fair or dark, something between. I didn't take particular notice, and it wasn't overlight outside the door.”
“It's too bad you weren't a younger man, Jason,” commented Jimmie Dale, with a curious tinge of bitterness in his voice. “I'd have given a year's income for your opportunity to-night, Jason.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jason helplessly.
“Well, go on,” prompted Jimmie Dale. “You told her I wasn't home, and she said she knew it, didn't she? And she left the letter that I was on no account to miss receiving when I got back, though there was no need of telephoning me to the club—when I returned would do, but it was imperative that I should have it then—eh?”
“Good Lord, sir!” ejaculated Jason, his jaw dropped, “that's exactly what she did say.”
“Jason,” said Jimmie Dale grimly, “listen to me. If ever she comes here again, inveigle her in. If you can't inveigle her, use force; capture her, pull her in, do anything—do anything, do you hear? Only don't let her get away from you until I've come.”
Jason gazed at his master as though the other had lost his reason.
“Use force, sir?” he repeated weakly—and shook his head. “You—you can't mean that, sir.”
“Can't I?” inquired Jimmie Dale, with a mirthless smile. “I mean every word of it, Jason—and if I thought there was the slightest chance of her giving you the opportunity, I'd be more imperative still. As it is—where's the letter?”
“On the table in your studio, sir,” said Jason, mechanically.
Jimmie Dale started toward the stairs—then turned and came back to where Jason, still shaking his head heavily, had been gazing anxiously after his master. Jimmie Dale laid his hand on the old man's shoulder.
“Jason,” he said kindly, with a swift change of mood, “you've been a long time in the family—first with father, and now with me. You'd do a good deal for me, wouldn't you?”
“I'd do anything in the world for you, Master Jim,” said the old man earnestly.
“Well, then, remember this,” said Jimmie Dale slowly, looking into the other's eyes, “remember this—keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. It's my fault. I should have warned you long ago, but I never dreamed that she would ever come here herself. There have been times when it was practically a matter of life and death to me to know who that woman is that you saw to-night. That's all, Jason. Now go to bed.”
“Master Jim,” said the old man simply, “thank you, sir, thank you for trusting me. I've dandled you on my knee when you were a baby, Master Jim. I don't know what it's about, and it isn't for me to ask. I thought, sir, that maybe you were having a little fun with me. But I know now, and you can trust me, Master Jim, if she ever comes again.”
“Thank you, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, his hand closing with an appreciative pressure on the other's shoulder “Good-night, Jason.”
Upstairs on the first landing, Jimmie Dale opened a door, closed and locked it behind him—and the electric switch clicked under his fingers. A glow fell softly from a cluster of shaded ceiling lights. It was a large room, a very large room, running the entire depth of the house, and the effect of apparent disorder in the arrangement of its appointments seemed to breathe a sense of charm. There were great cozy, deep, leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge, leather-covered davenport, and an easel or two with half-finished sketches upon them; the walls were panelled, the panels of exquisite grain and matching; in the centre of the room stood a flat-topped rosewood desk; upon the floor was a dark, heavy velvet rug; and, perhaps most inviting of all, there was a great, old-fashioned fireplace at one side of the room.
For an instant Jimmie Dale remained quietly by the door, as though listening. Six feet he stood, muscular in every line of his body, like a well-trained athlete with no single ounce of superfluous fat about him—the grace and ease of power in his poise. His strong, clean-shaven face, as the light fell upon it now, was serious—a mood that became him well—the firm lips closed, the dark, reliant eyes a little narrowed, a frown on the broad forehead, the square jaw clamped.
Then abruptly he walked across the room to the desk, picked up an envelope that lay upon it, and, turning again, dropped into the nearest lounging chair.
There had been no doubt in his mind, none to dispel. It was precisely what he had expected from almost the first word Jason had spoken. It was the same handwriting, the same texture of paper, and there was the same old haunting, rare, indefinable fragrance about it. Jimmie Dale's hands turned the envelope now this way, now that, as he looked at it. Wonderful hands were Jimmie Dale's, with long, slim, tapering fingers whose sensitive tips seemed now as though they were striving to decipher the message within.
He laughed suddenly, a little harshly, and tore open the envelope. Five closely written sheets fell into his hand. He read them slowly, critically, read them over again; and then, his eyes on the rug at his feet, he began to tear the paper into minute pieces between his fingers, depositing the pieces, as he tore them, upon the arm of his chair. The five sheets demolished, his fingers dipped into the heap of shreds on the arm of the chair and tore them over and over again, tore them until they were scarcely larger than bits of confetti, tore at them absently and mechanically, his eyes never shifting from the rug at his feet.
Then with a shrug of his shoulders, as though rousing himself to present reality, a curious smile flickering on his lips, he brushed the pieces of paper into one hand, carried them to the empty fireplace, laid them down in a little pile, and set them afire. Lighting a cigarette, he watched them burn until the last glow had gone from the last charred scrap; then he crunched and scattered them with the brass-handled fender brush, and, retracing his steps across the room, flung back a portiere from where it hung before a little alcove, and dropped on his knees in front of a round, squat, barrel-shaped safe—one of his own design and planning in the years when he had been with his father.
His slim, sensitive fingers played for an instant among the knobs and dials that studded the door, guided, it seemed by the sense of touch alone—and the door swung open. Within was another door, with locks and bolts as intricate and massive as the outer one. This, too, he opened; and then from the interior took out a short, thick, rolled-up leather bundle tied together with thongs. He rose from his knees, closed the safe, and drew the portiere across the alcove again. With the bundle under his arm, he glanced sharply around the room, listened intently, then, unlocking the door that gave on the hall, he switched off the lights and went to his dressing room, that was on the same floor. Here, divesting himself quickly of his dinner clothes, he selected a dark tweed suit with loose-fitting, sack coat from his wardrobe, and began to put it on.
Dressed, all but his coat and vest, he turned to the leather bundle that he had placed on a table, untied the thongs, and carefully opened it out to its full length—and again that curious, cryptic smile tinged his lips. Rolled the opposite away from that in which it had been tied up, the leather strip made a wide belt that went on somewhat after the fashion of a life preserver, the thongs being used for shoulder straps—a belt that, once on, the vest would hide completely, and, fitting close, left no telltale bulge in the outer garments. It was not an ordinary belt; it was full of stout-sewn, up-right little pockets all the way around, and in the pockets grimly lay an array of fine, blued-steel, highly tempered instruments—a compact, powerful burglar's kit.
The slim, sensitive fingers passed with almost a caressing touch over the vicious little implements, and from one of the pockets extracted a thin, flat metal case. This Jimmie Dale opened, and glanced inside—between sheets of oil paper lay little rows of GRAY, ADHESIVE, DIAMOND-SHAPED SEALS.
Jimmie Dale snapped the case shut, returned it to its recess, and from another took out a black silk mask. He held it up to the light for examination.
“Pretty good shape after a year,” muttered Jimmie Dale, replacing it.
He put on the belt, then his vest and coat. From the drawer of his dresser he took an automatic revolver and an electric flashlight, slipped them into his pocket, and went softly downstairs. From the hat stand he chose a black slouch hat, pulled it well over his eyes—and left the house.
Jimmie Dale walked down a block, then hailed a bus and mounted to the top. It was late, and he found himself the only passenger. He inserted his dime in the conductor's little resonant-belled cash receiver, and then settled back on the uncomfortable, bumping, cushionless seat.
On rattled the bus; it turned across town, passed the Circle, and headed for Fifth Avenue—but Jimmie Dale, to all appearances, was quite oblivious of its movements.
It was a year since she had written him. SHE! Jimmie Dale did not smile, his lips were pressed hard together. Not a very intimate or personal appellation, that—but he knew her by no other. It WAS a woman, surely—the hand-writing was feminine, the diction eminently so—and had SHE not come herself that night to Jason! He remembered the last letter, apart from the one to-night, that he had received from her. It was a year ago now—and the letter had been hardly more than a note. The police had worked themselves into a frenzy over the Gray Seal, the papers had grown absolutely maudlin—and she had written, in her characteristic way:
Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Jimmie? Let's let them cool for a year.
Since then until to-night he had heard nothing from her. It was a strange compact that he had entered into—so strange that it could never have known, could never know a parallel—unique, dangerous, bizarre, it was all that and more. It had begun really through his connection with his father's business—the business of manufacturing safes that should defy the cleverest criminals—when his brains, turned into that channel, had been pitted against the underworld, against the methods of a thousand different crooks from Maine to California, the report of whose every operation had reached him in the natural course of business, and every one of which he had studied in minutest detail. It had begun through that—but at the bottom of it was his own restless, adventurous spirit.
He had meant to set the police by the ears, using his gray-seal device both as an added barb and that no innocent bystander of the underworld, innocent for once, might be involved—he had meant to laugh at them and puzzle them to the verge of madness, for in the last analysis they would find only an abortive attempt at crime—and he had succeeded. And then he had gone too far—and he had been caught—by HER. That string of pearls, which, to study whose effect facetiously, he had so idiotically wrapped around his wrist, and which, so ironically, he had been unable to loosen in time and had been forced to carry with him in his sudden, desperate dash to escape from Marx's the big jeweler's, in Maiden Lane, whose strong room he had toyed with one night, had been the lever which, AT FIRST, she had held over him.
The bus was on Fifth Avenue now, and speeding rapidly down the deserted thoroughfare. Jimmie Dale looked up at the lighted windows of the St. James Club as they went by, smiled whimsically, and shifted in his seat, seeking a more comfortable position.
She had caught him—how he did not know—he had never seen her—did not know who she was, though time and again he had devoted all his energies for months at a stretch to a solution of the mystery. The morning following the Maiden Lane affair, indeed, before he had breakfasted, Jason had brought him the first letter from her. It had started by detailing his every move of the night before—and it had ended with an ultimatum: “The cleverness, the originality of the Gray Seal as a crook lacked but one thing,” she had naively written, “and that one thing was that his crookedness required a leading string to guide it into channels that were worthy of his genius.” In a word, SHE would plan the coups, and he would act at her dictation and execute them—or else how did twenty years in Sing Sing for that little Maiden Lane affair appeal to him? He was to answer by the next morning, a simple “yes” or “no” in the personal column of the morning NEWS-ARGUS.
A threat to a man like Jimmie Dale was like flaunting a red rag at a bull, and a rage ungovernable had surged upon him. Then cold reason had come. He was caught—there was no question about that—she had taken pains to show him that he need make no mistake there. Innocent enough in his own conscience, as far as actual theft went, for the pearls would in due course be restored in some way to the possession of their owner, he would have been unable to make even his own father, who was alive then, believe in his innocence, let alone a jury of his peers. Dishonour, shame, ignominy, a long prison sentence, stared him in the face, and there was but one alternative—to link hands with this unseen, mysterious accomplice. Well, he could at least temporise, he could always “queer” a game in some specious manner, if he were pushed too far. And so, in the next morning's NEWS-ARGUS, Jimmie Dale had answered “yes.” And then had followed those years in which there had been NO temporising, in which every plan was carried out to the last detail, those years of curious, unaccountable, bewildering affairs that Carruthers had spoken of, one on top of another, that had shaken the old headquarters on Mulberry Street to its foundations, until the Gray Seal had become a name to conjure with. And, yes, it was quite true, he had entered into it all, gone the limit, with an eagerness that was insatiable.
The bus had reached the lower end of Fifth Avenue, passed through Washington Square, and stopped at the end of its run. Jimmie Dale clambered down from the top, threw a pleasant “good-night” to the conductor, and headed briskly down the street before him. A little later he crossed into West Broadway, and his pace slowed to a leisurely stroll.
Here, at the upper end of the street, was a conglomerate business section of rather inferior class, catering doubtless to the poor, foreign element that congregated west of Broadway proper, and to the south of Washington Square. The street was, at first glance, deserted; it was dark and dreary, with stores and lofts on either side. An elevated train roared by overhead, with a thunderous, deafening clamour. Jimmie Dale, on the right-hand side of the street, glanced interestedly at the dark store windows as he went by. And then, a block ahead, on the other side, his eyes rested on an approaching form. As the other reached the corner and paused, and the light from the street lamp glinted on brass buttons, Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed a little under his slouch hat. The policeman, although nonchalantly swinging a nightstick, appeared to be watching him.
Jimmie Dale went on half a block farther, stooped to the sidewalk to tie his shoe, glanced back over his shoulder—the policeman was not in sight—and slipped like a shadow into the alleyway beside which he had stopped.
It was another Jimmie Dale now—the professional Jimmie Dale. Quick as a cat, active, lithe, he was over a six foot fence in the rear of a building in a flash, and crouched a black shape, against the back door of an unpretentious, unkempt, dirty, secondhand shop that fronted on West Broadway—the last place certainly in all New York that the managing editor of the NEWS-ARGUS, or any one else, for that matter, would have picked out as the setting for the second debut of the Gray Seal.
From the belt around his waist, Jimmie Dale took the black silk mask, and slipped it on; and from the belt, too, came a little instrument that his deft fingers manipulated in the lock. A curious snipping sound followed. Jimmie Dale put his weight gradually against the door. The door held fast.
“Bolted,” said Jimmie Dale to himself.
The sensitive fingers travelled slowly up and down the side of the door, seeming to press and feel for the position of the bolt through an inch of plank—then from the belt came a tiny saw, thin and pointed at the end, that fitted into the little handle drawn from another receptacle in the leather girdle beneath the unbuttoned vest.
Hardly a sound it made as it bit into the door. Half a minute passed—there was the faint fall of a small piece of wood—into the aperture crept the delicate, tapering fingers—came a slight rasping of metal—then the door swung back, the dark shadow that had been Jimmie Dale vanished and the door closed again.
A round, white beam of light glowed for an instant—and disappeared. A miscellaneous, lumbering collection of junk and odds and ends blocked the entry, leaving no more space than was sufficient for bare passageway. Jimmie Dale moved cautiously—and once more the flashlight in his hand showed the way for an instant—then darkness again.
The cluttered accumulation of secondhand stuff in the rear gave place to a little more orderly arrangement as he advanced toward the front of the store. Like a huge firefly, the flashlight twinkled, went out, twinkled again, and went out. He passed a sort of crude, partitioned-off apartment that did duty for the establishment's office, a sort of little boxed-in place it was, about in the middle of the floor. Jimmie Dale's light played on it for a moment, but he kept on toward the front door without any pause.
Every movement was quick, sure, accurate, with not a wasted second. It had been barely a minute since he had vaulted the back fence. It was hardly a quarter of a minute more before the cumbersome lock of the front door was unfastened, and the door itself pulled imperceptibly ajar.
He went swiftly back to the office now—and found it even more of a shaky, cheap affair than it had at first appeared; more like a box stall with windows around the top than anything else, the windows doubtless to permit the occupant to overlook the store from the vantage point of the high stool that stood before a long, battered, wobbly desk. There was a door to the place, too, but the door was open and the key was in the lock. The ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight swept once around the interior—and rested on an antique, ponderous safe.
Under the mask Jimmie Dale's lips parted in a smile that seemed almost apologetic, as he viewed the helpless iron monstrosity that was little more than an insult to a trained cracksman. Then from the belt came the thin metal case and a pair of tweezers. He opened the case, and with the tweezers lifted out one of the gray-coloured, diamond-shaped seals. Holding the seal with the tweezers, he moistened the gummed side with his lips, then laid it on a handkerchief which he took from his pocket, and clapped the handkerchief against the front of the safe, sticking the seal conspicuously into place. Jimmie Dale's insignia bore no finger prints. The microscopes and magnifying glasses at headquarters had many a time regretfully assured the police of that fact.
And now his hands and fingers seemed to work like lightning. Into the soft iron bit a drill—bit in and through—bit in and through again. It was dark, pitch black—and silent. Not a sound, save the quick, dull rasp of the ratchet—like the distant gnawing of a mouse! Jimmie Dale worked fast—another hole went through the face of the old-fashioned safe—and then suddenly he straightened up to listen, every faculty tense, alert, and strained, his body thrown a little forward. WHAT WAS THAT!
From the alleyway leading from the street without, through which he himself had come, sounded the stealthy crunch of feet. Motionless in the utter darkness, Jimmie Dale listened—there was a scraping noise in the rear—someone was climbing the fence that he had climbed!
In an instant the tools in Jimmie Dale's hands disappeared into their respective pockets beneath his vest—and the sensitive fingers shot to the dial on the safe.
“Too bad,” muttered Jimmie Dale plaintively to himself. “I could have made such an artistic job of it—I swear I could have cut Carruthers' profile in the hole in less than no time—to open it like this is really taking the poor old thing at a disadvantage.”
He was on his knees now, one ear close to the dial, listening as the tumblers fell, while the delicate fingers spun the knob unerringly—the other ear strained toward the rear of the premises.
Came a footstep—a ray of light—a stumble—nearer—the newcomer was inside the place now, and must have found out that the back door had been tampered with. Nearer came the steps—still nearer—and then the safe door swung open under Jimmie Dale's hand, and Jimmie Dale, that he might not be caught like a rat in a trap, darted from the office—but he had delayed a little too long.
From around the cluttered piles of junk and miscellany swept the light—full on Jimmie Dale. Hesitation for the smallest fraction of a second would have been fatal, but hesitation was something that in all his life Jimmie Dale had never known. Quick as a panther in its spring, he leaped full at the light and the man behind it. The rough voice, in surprised exclamation at the sudden discovery of the quarry, died in a gasp.
There was a crash as the two men met—and the other reeled back before the impact. Onto him Jimmie Dale sprang, and his hands flew for the other's throat. It was an officer in uniform! Jimmie Dale had felt the brass buttons as they locked. In the darkness there was a queer smile on Jimmie Dale's tight lips. It was no doubt THE officer whom he had passed on the other side of the street.
The other was a smaller man than Jimmie Dale, but powerful for his build—and he fought now with all his strength. This way and that the two men reeled, staggered, swayed, panting and gasping; and then—they had lurched back close to the office door—with a sudden swing, every muscle brought into play for a supreme effort, Jimmie Dale hurled the other from him, sending the man sprawling back to the floor of the office, and in the winking of an eye had slammed shut the door and turned the key.
There was a bull-like roar, the shrill CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP of the patrolman's whistle, and a shattering crash as the officer flung his body against the partition—then the bark of a revolver shot, the tinkle of breaking glass, as the man fired through the office window—and past Jimmie Dale, speeding now for the front door, a bullet hummed viciously.
Out on the street dashed Jimmie Dale, whipping the mask from his face—and glanced like a hawk around him. For all the racket, the neighbourhood had not yet been aroused—no one was in sight. From just overhead came the rattle of a downtown elevated train. In a hundred-yard sprint, Jimmie Dale raced it a half block to the station, tore up the steps—and a moment later dropped nonchalantly into a seat and pulled an evening newspaper from his pocket.
Jimmie Dale got off at the second station down, crossed the street, mounted the steps of the elevated again, and took the next train uptown. His movements appeared to be somewhat erratic—he alighted at the station next above the one by which he had made his escape. Looking down the street it was too dark to see much of anything, but a confused noise as of a gathering crowd reached him from what was about the location of the secondhand store. He listened appreciatively for a moment.
“Isn't it a perfectly lovely night?” said Jimmie Dale amiably to himself. “And to think of that cop running away with the idea that I didn't see him when he hid in a doorway after I passed the corner! Well, well, strange—isn't it?”
With another glance down the street, a whimsical lift of his shoulders, he headed west into the dilapidated tenement quarter that huddled for a handful of blocks near by, just south of Washington Square. It was a little after one o'clock in the morning now and the pedestrians were casual. Jimmie Dale read the street signs on the corners as he went along, turned abruptly into an intersecting street, counted the tenements from the corner as he passed, and—for the eye of any one who might be watching—opened the street door of one of them quite as though he were accustomed and had a perfect right to do so, and went inside.
It was murky and dark within; hot, unhealthy, with lingering smells of garlic and stale cooking. He groped for the stairs and started up. He climbed one flight, then another—and one more to the top. Here, treading softly, he made an examination of the landing with a view, evidently, to obtaining an idea of the location and the number of doors that opened off from it.
His selection fell on the third door from the head of the stairs—there were four all told, two apartments of two rooms each. He paused for an instant to adjust the black silk mask, tried the door quietly, found it unlocked, opened it with a sudden, quick, brisk movement—and, stepping in side, leaned with his back against it.
“Good-morning,” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly.
It was a squalid place, a miserable hole, in which a single flickering, yellow gas jet gave light. It was almost bare of furniture; there was nothing but a couple of cheap chairs, a rickety table—unpawnable. A boy, he was hardly more than that, perhaps twenty-two, from a posture in which he was huddled across the table with head buried in out-flung arms, sprang with a startled cry to his feet.
“Good-morning,” said Jimmie Dale again. “Your name's Hagan, Bert Hagan—isn't it? And you work for Isaac Brolsky in the secondhand shop over on West Broadway—don't you?”
The boy's lips quivered, and the gaunt, hollow, half-starved face, white, ashen-white now, was pitiful.
“I—I guess you got me,” he faltered “I—I suppose you're a plain-clothes man, though I never knew dicks wore masks.”
“They don't generally,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. “It's a fad of mine—Bert Hagan.”
The lad, hanging to the table, turned his head away for a moment—and there was silence.
Presently Hagan spoke again. “I'll go,” he said numbly. “I won't make any trouble. Would—would you mind not speaking loud? I—I wouldn't like her to know.”
“Her?” said Jimmie Dale softly.
The boy tiptoed across the room, opened a connecting door a little, peered inside, opened it a little wider—and looked over his shoulder at Jimmie Dale.
Jimmie Dale crossed to the boy, looked inside the other room—and his lip twitched queerly, as the sight sent a quick, hurt throb through his heart. A young woman, younger than the boy, lay on a tumble-down bed, a rag of clothing over her—her face with a deathlike pallor upon it, as she lay in what appeared to be a stupor. She was ill, critically ill; it needed no trained eye to discern a fact all too apparent to the most casual observer. The squalor, the glaring poverty here, was even more pitifully in evidence than in the other room—only here upon a chair beside the bed was a cluster of medicine bottles and a little heap of fruit.
Jimmie Dale drew back silently as the boy closed the door.
Hagan walked to the table and picked up his hat.
“I'm—I'm ready,” he said brokenly. “Let's go.”
“Just a minute,” said Jimmie Dale. “Tell us about it.”
“Twon't take long,” said Hagan, trying to smile. “She's my wife. The sickness took all we had. I—I kinder got behind in the rent and things. They were going to fire us out of here—to-morrow. And there wasn't any money for the medicine, and—and the things she had to have. Maybe you wouldn't have done it—but I did. I couldn't see her dying there for the want of something a little money'd buy—and—and I couldn't”—he caught his voice in a little sob—“I couldn't see her thrown out on the street like that.”
“And so,” said Jimmie Dale, “instead of putting old Isaac's cash in the safe this evening when you locked up, you put it in your pocket instead—eh? Didn't you know you'd get caught?”
“What did it matter?” said the boy. He was twirling his misshappen hat between his fingers. “I knew they'd know it was me in the morning when old Isaac found it gone, because there wasn't anybody else to do it. But I paid the rent for four months ahead to-night, and I fixed it so's she'd have medicine and things to eat. I was going to beat it before daylight myself—I”—he brushed his hand hurriedly across his cheek—“I didn't want to go—to leave her till I had to.”
“Well, say”—there was wonderment in Jimmie Dale's tones, and his English lapsed into ungrammatical, reassuring vernacular—“ain't that queer! Say, I'm no detective. Gee, kid, did you think I was? Say, listen to this! I cracked old Isaac's safe half an hour ago—and I guess there won't be any idea going around that you got the money and I pulled a lemon. Say, I ain't superstitious, but it looks like luck meant you to have another chance, don't it?”
The hat dropped from Hagan's hands to the floor, and he swayed a little.
“You—you ain't a dick!” he stammered. “Then how'd you know about me and my name when you found the safe empty? Who told you?”
A wry grimace spread suddenly over Jimmie Dale's face beneath the mask, and he swallowed hard. Jimmie Dale would have given a good deal to have been able to answer that question himself.
“Oh, that!” said Jimmie Dale. “That's easy—I knew you worked there. Say, it's the limit, ain't it? Talk about your luck being in, why all you've got to do is to sit tight and keep your mouth shut, and you're safe as a church. Only say, what are you going to do about the money, now you've got a four months' start and are kind of landed on your feet?
“Do?” said the boy. “I'll pay it back, little by little. I meant to. I ain't no—” He stopped abruptly.
“Crook,” supplied Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “Spit it right out, kid; you won't hurt my feelings none. Well, I'll tell you—you're talking the way I like to hear you—you pay that back, slide it in without his knowing it, a bit at a time, whenever you can, and you'll never hear a yip out of me; but if you don't, why it kind of looks as though I have a right to come down your street and get my share or know the reason why—eh?”
“Then you never get any share,” said Hagan, with a catch in his voice. “I pay it back as fast as I can.”
“Sure,” said Jimmie Dale. “That's right—that's what I said. Well, so long—Hagan.” And Jimmie Dale had opened the door and slipped outside.
