Produced by Brendan Lane, Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
BY
FRANK L. PACKARD
1919
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I SMARLINGHUE
II THE WARNING
III THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
IV THE DIAMOND PENDANT
V "DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"
VI THE REHABILITATION OF LARRY THE BAT
VII THE BOND ROBBERY
VIII AT HALFPAST ONE
IX 'WARE THE WOLF!
X THE CHASE
XI THE VOICES OF THE UNDERWORLD
XII IN THE SANCTUARY
XIII THE SECRET ROOM
XIV THE LAST CARD
XV CAUGHT IN THE ACT
XVI ONE CHANCE IN TEN
XVII THE DEFAULTER
XVIII ALIAS ENGLISH DICK
XIX THE BEGINNING OF THE END
XX THE OLD-CLOTHES SHOP
XXI SILVER MAG
XXII THE TOCSIN'S STORY
XXIII HUNCHBACK JOE
XXIV AT FIVE MINUTES OF TWELVE
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE
CHAPTER I
SMARLINGHUE
A diminutive gas-jet's sickly, yellow flame illuminated the room with
poverty-stricken inadequacy; high up on the wall, bordering the ceiling,
the moonlight, as though contemptuous of its artificial competitor,
streamed in through a small, square window, and laid a white, flickering
path to the door across a filthy and disreputable rag of carpet; also,
through a rent in the roller shade, which was drawn over a sort of
antiquated French window that opened on a level with the floor and in
line with the top-light, the moonlight disclosed a narrow and squalid
courtyard without.
In one corner of the room stood a battered easel, while against the wall
near it, and upon the floor, were a number of canvases of different
sizes. A cot bed, unmade, its covers dirty and in disorder, occupied the
wall space opposite the door. In the centre of the mean and uninviting
apartment stood a table, its top littered with odds and ends, amongst
which the remains of a meal, dishes and food, fraternised gregariously
with a painter's palette, brushes and paint tubes. A chair or two, long
since disabled, and a rickety washstand completed the appointments.
The moonlight's path across the floor wavered suddenly, the door opened,
was locked again, and with a quick, catlike step a man moved along the
side of the wall where the shadows lay thickest near the door, dropped
on his knees, and began to fumble hurriedly with the base-board of the
wall, pausing at every alternate second to listen intently.
A minute passed. A section of the base-board was lifted out, the man's
hand was thrust inside--and emerged again with a large roll of
banknotes. He turned his head for a quick glance around the room, his
eyes, burning out of a gaunt, hollow-cheeked, pallid face, held on the
torn window shade--and then, in almost frantic haste, he thrust the
banknotes back inside the wall, and began to replace the base-board. But
it was not the window shade, nor yet the courtyard without with which he
was concerned--it was the sound of a heavy footstep outside the door.
And now the door was tried. The man on the floor, working with desperate
energy to replace the base-board, coughed in an asthmatic, wheezing way,
as there came the imperative smashing of a fist upon the door panels,
coupled with a gruff, curt demand for admittance. Again the man
coughed--to drown perhaps the slight rasping sound as the base-board
slid back into place--and, rising to his feet, shuffled hastily to the
door and unlocked it.
The door was flung violently open from without, a heavy-built,
clean-shaven, sharp-featured man stepped into the room, slammed the door
shut behind him, re-locked it, and swept a shrewd, inquisitive,
suspicious glance about the place.
"It took you a damned long time to open that door, _Mister_
Smarlinghue!" he said sharply.
The man addressed touched his lips with the tip of his tongue nervously,
shrank back, and made no reply.
The lapel of the visitor's coat thrown carelessly back displayed a
police shield on the vest beneath; and now, completing a preliminary
survey of the surroundings, the man's eyes narrowed on Smarlinghue.
"I guess you know who I am, don't you? Heard of me perhaps, too--eh?
Clancy of headquarters is my name!" He laughed menacingly, unpleasantly.
Smarlinghue's clothes were threadbare and ill-fitting; his coat was a
size too small for him, and from the short sleeves protruded blatantly
the frayed and soiled wristbands of his shirt. He twined his hands
together anxiously, and retreated further back into the room.
"I haven't done anything, honest to God, I haven't!" he whined.
"Ain't, eh?" The other laughed again. "No, of course not! Nobody ever
did! But now I'm here--just dropped in socially, you know--I'll have a
look around."
He began to move about the room. Smarlinghue, still twining his hands in
a helpless, frightened way, still circling his lips nervously with the
tip of his tongue, followed the other's movements in miserable
apprehension with his eyes.
Clancy, as he had introduced himself, shot up the roller shade, peered
out into the courtyard, yanked the shade down again with a callous jerk
that almost tore it from its fastenings, and strode over toward the
easel, contemptuously kicking a chair that happened to be in his way
over onto the floor. Reaching the easel he picked up the canvas that
rested upon it, stared at it for a moment--and with a grunt of disdain
flung it away from him to the ground.
There was a crash as it struck the floor, a ripping sound as the
canvas split, and with a pitiful cry Smarlinghue rushed forward and
snatched it up.
"It--it was sold," he choked. "I--I was to get the money to-morrow. I
have had bad luck for a month--nothing sold but this--and now--and
now--" He drew himself up suddenly, and, with the ruined painting
clutched to his breast, shook his other fist wildly. "You have no right
here!" he screamed in fury. "Do you hear! I have not done anything! I
tell you, I have not done anything! You have no right here! I will make
you pay for this! I will! I will!" His voice was rising in a shrill
falsetto. "I will make you--"
"You hold your tongue," growled Clancy savagely, "or I'll give you
something more than an old chromo to make a row about! I don't want any
mass meeting of your kind of citizens. Get that?" He caught Smarlinghue
roughly by the shoulder, and pushed him into a chair near the table.
"Sit down there, and close your jaw!"
Cowed, Smarlinghue's voice dropped to a mumble, and he let the torn
canvas slip from his fingers to the floor.
Clancy laughed gruffly, pulled another chair to the opposite side of the
table, sat down himself, and eyed Smarlinghue coldly for a moment.
"Sold it, eh?" he observed grimly. "How much were you going to
get for it?"
A cunning gleam flashed in Smarlinghue's eyes--and vanished instantly.
He wet his lips with his tongue again.
"Ten dollars," he said hoarsely.
Clancy brushed aside the litter on the table, and nonchalantly laid down
a ten-dollar bill.
With a sharp little cry that brought on a fit of coughing, Smarlinghue
stretched out his hand for the money eagerly.
Clancy drew the money back out of reach.
"Oh, no, nothing like that!" he drawled unpleasantly. "Don't make the
mistake of taking me for a fool. I'm not buying any ten-cent art
treasures at ten dollars a throw!"
Smarlinghue's eyes remained greedily riveted on the ten-dollar note. He
began to twine his hands together once more.
"I don't know what you mean," he muttered tremulously.
"Don't you!" retorted the other shortly. "Well, I mean exactly what I
say. I'm not buying any pictures, I'm buying--_you_. I have been keeping
an eye on you for the last three or four months. You're just the guy
I've been looking for. As far as I can make out, there ain't a dive or a
roost in the Bad Lands where you don't get the glad hand--eh?"
"I--I haven't done anything! Not a thing! I--I swear I haven't!"
Smarlinghue burst out frantically.
"Aw, forget it!" Clancy permitted a thin smile to flicker contemptuously
across his lips. "You've got a whole lot of friends that I'm interested
in. Get the idea? There ain't a crook in New York that's shy of you. You
got a 'stand-in' everywhere." He held up the ten-dollar bill. "There's
more of these--plenty of 'em."
Smarlinghue pushed back his chair now in a frightened sort of way.
"You--you mean you want me for--for a stool pigeon?" he faltered.
"You got it!" said Clancy bluntly.
Smarlinghue's eyes roved about the room in a furtive, terror-stricken
glance, his hand passed aimlessly over his eyes, and he crouched low
down in his chair.
"No, no!" he whispered. "No, no--for God's sake, Mr. Clancy, don't ask
me to do that! I can't--I can't! I--I wouldn't be any good, I--I can't!
I--I won't!"
Clancy thrust head and shoulders aggressively across the table.
"You will--if you know what's good for you!" he said evenly. "And,
what's more, there's a little job you're going to break your hand in on
to-night."
"No! No, no! I can't! I can't!" Smarlinghue flung out his arms
imploringly.
Clancy lowered his voice.
"Cut that out!" he snapped viciously. "What's the matter with you!
You'll be well paid for it--_and have police protection_. You ought to
know what that'll mean to you--eh? You live like a gutter-snipe
here--half starved most of the time, for all you can get out of those
ungodly daubs!"
A curious dignity came to Smarlinghue. He sat upright.
"It is my art," he said. "I have starved for it many years. Some day I
will get recognition. Some day I--"
"Art--hell!" sneered Clancy; and then he laughed coarsely, as, his
fingers prodding under the miscellany of articles on the table, he
suddenly held up a hypodermic syringe. "This is _your_ art, my bucko!
Why, you poor boob, don't you think I know you! Cocaine's the one thing
on earth you live for. You're stewed to the eyes with it now. Here, just
watch me! Suppose"--he caught the syringe in a quick grip between the
fingers of both hands--"suppose I just put this little toy out of
commission now, and--"
With a shrill screech, Smarlinghue sprang from his chair, and clawed
like a demented man at the other's hands for possession of the
hypodermic.
Clancy surrendered the syringe with a mocking grin, and shoved
Smarlinghue backward into his chair again.
"Oh, yes; you're an artist all right--a coke artist!" he remarked
coolly. "But that's what makes you solid in every den in New York, and
that's how you come in useful--to me. Well, what do you say?"
There was a hunted look in Smarlinghue's eyes.
"They'd--they'd kill me," he said huskily.
"Sure, they would!" agreed Clancy easily. "If they found you out it
would be good-night, all right--that's what you're getting paid for.
But"--his voice hardened--"if you don't come across, I'll tell you what
_I'll_ do to you. I'll--"
"You can't do anything! Not a thing!" Smarlinghue cried wildly. "You
haven't anything on me at all. I've never done a thing, not a single--"
"Oh, I guess there's enough to make you sweat," Clancy cut in brutally.
"You give me the icy paw, and I'll see that the tip leaks out from the
right quarters that you _are_ a stool pigeon. That'll take care of your
finish, too, won't it--good and plenty!"
Smarlinghue stared miserably. Again and again his tongue circled his
lips. Twice he tried to speak--and only succeeded in mumbling
inarticulately.
Clancy got up from the table, walked around it, and, standing over the
crouched figure in the chair, tapped with his finger on the hypodermic
in Smarlinghue's hands.
"And that ain't all," he announced with a malicious grin. "You come in
and play the game with me, or I'll fix it so that you'll never get
another squirt of dope if you had a million bucks to buy it with--ah, I
thought that would get you!"
Smarlinghue was on his feet. The terror of the damned was in his face.
"No! No! My God--no--not that! You--you wouldn't do that!" He reached
out his arms to the other.
"You know--I've gone too far to do without it. If I didn't have it, I--"
"I've seen a few of them in that sort of jim-jams," said Clancy
malevolently. "You can't tell me anything about it. If you appreciate
it, that's enough--it's up to you. You heard what I said. If you're
looking for that particular kind of hell, go to it. Only don't kid
yourself. When I pass the word to put the screws on, the lid's down for
keeps. Well, what's the answer? Coming across? Quick now! I haven't got
all night to spend here!"
Smarlinghue's hands were trembling violently; he sat down in his chair
in a pitiful, uncertain way.
"Yes, yes!" he whispered. "_Yes!_ I got to do it. I'll do it, Mr.
Clancy, I'll do it! I'll--I'll do anything!"
A half leer, half scowl was on Clancy's face, as he stood regarding
the other.
"I thought you would!" he grunted roughly. "Well then, we'll get down to
business--and _to-night's_ business. You know the back entrance to Malay
John's hang-out?"
Smarlinghue's eyes widened a little in a startled way. He nodded his
head.
"Very good," said Clancy gruffly. "_You'll_ have no trouble in getting
in there. And once in there you'll have no trouble in getting up to
Malay's private den. I've been wised up that Malay and a few of his pals
are getting ready to pull off a little game uptown. I want the dope on
it--_all_ of it. They've been meeting in Malay's den for the last few
nights--understand? They drift in between half past eleven and
twelve--you get there a little _before_ halfpast eleven. You haven't
anything to be afraid of, so don't lose your nerve. Malay himself is
away this evening and won't be back before midnight; and the door won't
be locked, as otherwise the others couldn't get in. Everything's clear
for you. Savvy? Once you're in the room, there's plenty of places to
hide--and that's all you've got to do, except keep your ears and eyes
open. Get the lay?"
Again Smarlinghue nodded--unhappily this time.
"All right!" said Clancy crisply. "I'm not coming around here any
more--_unless I have to_. It might put you in bad. You can make your
reports and get your orders through Whitie Karn at his dance hall."
"Whitie Karn!" The exclamation seemed to come involuntarily, in a quick,
frightened way from Smarlinghue.
Clancy's lips twisted in a smile.
"Kind of a jolt--eh--Smarlinghue? You didn't suspect he was one of _us_,
did you?--and there's more than Whitie Karn. Well, it will teach you to
be careful. Suppose Whitie, for instance, passed the word that you were
a snitch--eh? It won't do you any harm to keep that in mind once in a
while." He moved over to the door. "Well, good-night, Smarlinghue! I
guess you understand, don't you? You ought to be a pretty valuable man,
and I expect a lot from you. If I don't get it--" He shrugged his
shoulders, held Smarlinghue for an instant with half-closed, threatening
eyes--and then the door closed behind him.
Smarlinghue did not move. The steps receded from the door, and died away
along the passage. A minute, two minutes went by. Suddenly Smarlinghue
pushed back the wristband of his shirt, and pricked the skin with the
needle of the hypodermic. The door, without a sound, swung wide open.
Clancy stood in the doorway.
"Good-night again, Smarlinghue," he said coolly.
The hypodermic fell clattering to the floor; Smarlinghue jumped
nervously in his chair.
Clancy laughed--significantly; and, without closing the door this time,
strode away again. His steps echoed back from the passageway, the front
door opened and shut, his boot heel rang on the pavement without--and
all was silence.
Smarlinghue rose from his chair, shuffled across the room, closed the
door and locked it, then shuffled back again to the roller shade over
the little French window, and, taking a pin from the lapel of his coat,
fastened the rent together.
A passing cloud for a moment obscured the moonrays from the top-light;
the gas-jet choked with air, spluttered, burning with a tiny, blue,
hissing flame; then the white path lay across the floor again, and the
yellow flare of gas spurted up into its pitiful fulness--and in
Smarlinghue's stead stood another man. Gone were the stooping shoulders,
gone the hollow cheeks, the thin, extended lips, the widened nostrils,
as the little distorting pieces of wax were removed; and out of the
metamorphosis, hard and grim, set like chiselled marble, was revealed
the face of--Jimmie Dale.