THE DEFAULTER
At the other door the knocking still continued--and then it was
opened--and there came a chorus of low, horrified, startled cries, and
the quick rush of feet into the room.
The picklock went back into Jimmie Dale's pocket, and crouched, now, his
hand on the knob, turning it gradually without a sound, drawing the door
ajar inch by inch, he kept his eyes on the doorway connecting with the
other room. He could see the three men bending over Forrester. Their
voices came in confused, broken, snatches:
"... Dead!... Good God!... Are you sure?... Perhaps he's only
fainted.... No, he's dead, poor devil!..."
And then one of the men, the youngest of the three, a slight-built,
clean-shaven, dark-eyed man of perhaps twenty-eight or thirty, rose
abruptly, and glanced sharply around the room.
"Yes, he's dead!" he said bitterly. "Any one could tell that! But he
wouldn't be dead, and this would never have happened if you'd done what
I wanted you to do when you first came to the bank this afternoon. I
wanted you to have him arrested then, didn't I?"
One of the others--and it was obvious that the others were the two bank
examiners--a man of middle age, answered soberly.
"You're upset, Dryden," he said. "You know we couldn't do that--"
"On a teller's word against the cashier's--of course not!" the young man
broke in caustically. "Well, you see now, don't you?"
"We couldn't do it then without proof," amended the bank examiner
quietly.
"Proof!" Dryden exclaimed. "My God--_proof!_ Who tipped your people off
to have you drop in there this afternoon? I did, didn't I? Do you think
I'd do that without knowing what I was about! Didn't I tell you that
there was nothing but the office fixtures left! Didn't I? There were
only the two of us on the staff, and didn't I tell you that I had
discovered that the books were cooked from cover to cover? Yes, I did!
And you had to get your pencils out and start in on a thumb-rule
examination, as though nothing were the matter! Well, what did you find?
The securities in a mess, what there was left of them--and what was
supposed to be twenty thousand dollars that came out from the city
yesterday nothing but a package of blank paper!"
"You didn't know that yourself until half an hour ago when we started to
check up the cash," returned the other a little sharply.
"Well, perhaps, I didn't," admitted Dryden; "but I knew about the
books."
"Besides that," continued the bank examiner, "Mr. Forrester was in town
this afternoon when we got to the bank and this is the first time we
have seen him, so we could not very well have done anything other than
we have done in any case. I mention this because you are talking wildly,
and that sort of talk, if it gets out, won't do any of us any good. You
don't want to blame Mr. Marner here and myself for Mr. Forrester's
death, do you?"
"No--of course, I don't!" said Dryden, in a more subdued voice. "I
don't mean that at all. I guess you're right--I'm excited. I--well"--he
motioned jerkily toward the form on the floor--"I'm not used to walking
into a room and finding _that_."
It was Marner, the other bank examiner, who broke a moment's silence.
"We none of us are," he said, and brushed his hand across his forehead.
"A doctor can't do any good, of course, but I suppose we should call one
at once, and notify the police, too. I--"
Jimmie Dale had slipped through the door and out into the hall. A moment
more and he had descended the stairs and gained the street, still
another and he had stepped nonchalantly into his car. The car started
forward, passed out of the lighted zone of the town's main street--and
in the darkness, headed toward New York, Jimmie Dale, his nonchalance
gone now, leaned forward over the wheel, and the big sixty horse-power
car leaped into its stride like a thoroughbred at the touch of the spur,
and tore onward at dare-devil speed through the night.
His lips twisted in a smile that held little of humour. Back there in
that room they would call a doctor, and they would call the police. And
the doctor would establish the fact that Forrester had died from the
effects of a dose of prussic acid; and the police would establish--what?
Prussic acid was swift in its effect. If Forrester had died from that
cause, how had he taken it himself, and out of what had he taken it?
What the police would see would be quite a different thing from what he,
Jimmie Dale, had seen when he opened the door of that room! Instead of
the evidence of suicide, there was now every evidence of _murder_. The
bank examiners on entering the room, started at what they saw, obsessed
with the wreckage of the bank, might still for the moment have jumped to
the conclusion, natural enough under the circumstances, of suicide; but
the police, after ten minutes of unemotional investigation, would father
a very different theory.
Jimmie Dale's jaws clamped, as his eyes narrowed on the flying thread of
gray road under the dancing headlights. Well, the die was cast now! For
good or bad, his response to Forrester's telephone appeal had become the
vital factor in the case. For good or bad! He laughed out sharply into
the night. He would see soon enough--old Kronische, the wizened, crafty,
little chemist, who burrowed like a fox in its hole deep in the heart of
the Bad Lands, would answer that question. Old Kronische had a record
that was known to police and underworld alike--and was trusted by
neither one, and feared by both. But he was clever--clever with a
devilish cleverness. God alone knew what he was up to in the long hours
of day and night amongst his retorts and test tubes in his abominable
smelling little hole; but every one knew that from old Kronische
_anything_ of a chemical nature could be obtained if the price, not a
small one, was forthcoming, and if old Kronische was satisfied with the
credentials of his prospective client.
Yes--old Kronische! Old Kronische was the man, the one than; there was
no possible hesitancy or question there--the question was how to reach
old Kronische. Jimmie Dale shook his head in a quick, impatient gesture,
as though in irritation because his brain would not instantly respond to
his demand to formulate a plan. It seemed simple enough, old Kronische
was perfectly accessible--but it was, nevertheless, far from simple. He
could not go to old Kronische as Jimmie Dale, there was an ugly turn
that had been taken in that room of Forrester's now. If, as Jimmie
Dale, he had had reason to keep out of the affair before, it was
imperative that he should do so now--or he might find himself in a very
awkward situation, so awkward, in fact, that the consequences might lead
anywhere, and "anywhere" to Jimmie Dale, to the Gray Seal, to
Smarlinghue, might mean ruin, wreckage and disaster. Nor, much less,
could he risk going to old Kronische as Smarlinghue. He could not trust
old Kronische. How, if old Kronische chose to "talk," could Smarlinghue
account for any connection with what had transpired in Forrester's room?
How long would it be, even if Smarlinghue were no more than put under
surveillance, before the discovery would be made that Smarlinghue was
but a role that covered--Jimmie Dale!
And then Jimmie Dale's strained, set face relaxed a little. His brain
had repented of its stubbornness, it seemed, and was at work again.
There was a way, a very sure way as far as old Kronische being
"talkative" was concerned, but a very dangerous way from every other
point of view. Suppose he went to old Kronische--as Larry the Bat!
The car tore on through the night; towns and villages flashed by; the
long, deserted stretches of road began to give way to the city's
outskirts--and Jimmie Dale began to drive more cautiously. Larry the
Bat! Yes, it was perfectly feasible, as far as feasibility went. The
clothes that he had duplicated at such infinite trouble were still
hidden there in the Sanctuary. But to be caught as Larry the Bat
meant--the end. That was the one thing the underworld knew, the one
thing the police knew--that Larry the Bat was, or had been, the Gray
Seal. Still, he had done it once before, and it could be done again. He
could reach old Kronische's without much fear of discovery after all, he
would take good care to secure the few minutes necessary to make a
"getaway" from the old chemist's, and _afterwards_ old Kronische could
talk as much as he liked about--Larry the Bat! Yes, that was the way!
Old Kronische--and Larry the Bat. He, Jimmie Dale, would drive, say, to
Marlianne's restaurant, and telephone Jason to send Benson for the
car--Marlianne's, besides being a very natural stopping place, possessed
the added advantage of being quite close to the Sanctuary.
His decision made, Jimmie Dale gave his undivided attention to his car,
and ten minutes later, stopping in the shabby street that harboured
Marlianne's, he entered the restaurant, threaded his way through the
small crowded rooms--for Marlianne's, despite its spotted linen, was
crowded at all hours--to a sort of hallway at the rear of the place, and
entered the telephone booth.
He called his residence, and, as he waited for the connection, glanced
at his watch. He smiled grimly. He could congratulate himself for the
second time that night on having made a record run. It was not yet quite
half-past ten, and he must have been at least a good twenty minutes in
Forrester's rooms. He rattled the hook impatiently. They were a long
time in getting the connection! Halfpast ten! He could be at the
Sanctuary in another few minutes, ten minutes at the outside; then, say,
another twenty to rehabilitate Larry the Bat, and by eleven he--
"Yes--hello!"--he was speaking quickly into the 'phone, as Jason's voice
reached him. "Jason, I am down here at Marlianne's. Tell Benson to come
for the car, and--" He stopped abruptly. Jason was talking excitedly,
almost incoherently at the other end.
"Master Jim, sir! Is that you, sir, Master Jim! It--it came, sir, not
ten minutes after you left to-night, and--"
"Jason," said Jimmie Dale sharply, "what's the matter with you? What
are you talking about? What came?"
"Why--why, sir--I beg your pardon, sir, but I've been a bit uneasy ever
since, sir. It's--it's one of those letters, Master Jim, sir."
A sudden whiteness came into Jimmie Dale's face, as he stared
into the mouthpiece of the telephone. A "call to arms" from the
Tocsin--_now_--to-night! What was he to do! It was not a trivial thing
which that letter would contain--it never had been, and it never would
be, and no matter under what circumstances it found him, he--
Jason's voice faltered over the wire:
"Are you there, sir, Master Jim?"
"Yes," said Jimmie Dale quietly. "Bring the letter with you, Jason, and
come down with Benson. I will wait for you here--in the car outside
Marlianne's. And hurry, Jason--take a taxi down."
"Yes, sir," said Jason, his voice trembling a little. "At once,
Master Jim."
Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver, returned to the street, and seated
himself in his car. How long would it take them to get here? Half an
hour? Well then, for half an hour his hands were tied, and he could do
nothing but wait. He glanced around him. It was curious! It was here in
this very place that he had once found a letter from her in his car; it
was even here that, without knowing it at the moment, he had really seen
her for the first time. And now--what did it hold, this letter, this
"call to arms" that he sat here waiting for, while out there in that
little town a man lay dead on the floor of his room, and around whom,
where there had once been the evidence of a coward's guilt, crowned with
the sorriest epitaph that ever man had written, there was now the
evidence of a still blacker crime--the crime of murder.
He lighted a cigarette and smoked it through. Could it be _that_--in her
letter! Intuition again? Well, why not--if old Kronische should answer
the question as the chances were one in ten that old Kronische might
answer it! Yes--why not! It would not be strange. Intuition--because
somehow the feeling that it _was_ so grew stronger with each moment that
passed--well, once before to-night he had said that intuition had never
failed him yet!
The minutes dragged by interminably. He smoked another cigarette, and
after that another. The clock under the hood showed five minutes past
eleven; the minute hand crept around to eight, nine, ten minutes past
the hour--and then a taxi swerved on little better than two wheels
around the corner--and Jimmie Dale, springing from his seat, jumped to
the pavement as the taxi drew up at the curb.
Jason, palpably agitated, and followed by Benson, descended from the
taxi. Jimmie Dale dismissed the cab, and motioned Benson to the car.
"Well, Jason?" he said quickly.
"It's here, sir, Master Jim"--the old butler fumbled in an inner pocket,
and produced an envelope--"I--"
"Thank you! That's all--Jason." Jimmie Dale's quick smile robbed his
curt dismissal of any sting. "Benson, of course, will drive you home."
"Yes, sir." The old man went slowly to the car, and climbed in beside
the chauffeur. "Good-night, sir!" Jason ventured wistfully. "Good-night,
Master Jim!"
"Good-night, Jason--good-night, Benson!" Jimmie Dale answered--and,
turning, started briskly along the street. Jason's "good-night" had been
eloquent of the old man's anxiety. He would have liked to reassure
Jason--but he had neither the time, nor, for that matter, the ability to
do so. The old man would be reassured when he saw his Master Jim enter
the house again--and not until then!
Jimmie Dale glanced about him up and down the street. The car had gone,
and he was well away from the entrance to Marlianne's. The street itself
was practically deserted. He nodded quickly, and stepped forward toward
a street lamp that was close at hand. As well here as anywhere! There
was nothing remarkable in the fact that a man should stand under a
street lamp and read a letter--even if he were observed.
He tore the envelope open, and, standing there, leaned in apparent
nonchalance against the post--but into the dark eyes had leaped a sudden
flash. One word seemed to stand out from all the rest on the written
page he held in his hand--"Forrester." He laughed a little in a low,
grim way. His intuition had been right again then, and that
meant--_what_? If she, the Tocsin, knew, then--his mind was working
subconsciously, leaping from premise to a dimly seen, half formed
conclusion, while his eyes travelled rapidly over the written lines.
"Dear Philanthropic Crook:--You will have to hurry, Jimmie.... I do not
know what may happen.... Forrester ... bank cashier at"--yes, he knew
all that! But this--what was this? "Money lender.... Abe Suviney... bled
him ... early days in city bank ... fellow clerk's defalcation....
Forrester borrowed the money to cover it and save the other.... Suviney
used it as a club for blackmail.... Forrester was trapped ... could not
extricate himself without inculpating his friend ... friend died ...
Suviney put on the screws ... to say anything then was to have it look
like a dishonourable method of covering a theft of his own ... would
ruin his career ... original amount four thousand ... Forrester has
been paying blackmail in the shape of exorbitant interest ever since ...
Suviney finally demanded six thousand to-day to be paid at once ... this
has nothing to do with the bank robbery, but would look black ... added
evidence...." He read on, his mind seeming to absorb the contents of the
letter faster than his eyes could decipher the words. "English Dick ...
confession forged ... organisation widespread ... enormously powerful
... leadership a mystery ... rendezvous that English Dick visits is at
Marlopp's ... Reddy Mull's room ... rear room ... leaves cash and
securities there under loose board, right-hand corner from door ...
twenty thousand cash to-night...."
Jimmie Dale was walking on down the street, his fingers picking and
tearing the sheets of paper in his hand into minute fragments. There was
a sort of cold, unemotional, unnatural calm upon him. It was all here,
all, the Tocsin had--no, not all! She had not known of the last act in
the brutal drama, for her letter had been written prior to that. She had
not known that there was--_murder_. But apart from that, to the last
detail, in all its hideous, relentless craft, the whole plot was clear.
There was no need to go to old Kronische now, no need to assume the role
of Larry the Bat. The question was answered--the confession _was_ a
forgery--the evidence, not of suicide, but of murder, that he, Jimmie
Dale, had left behind him in that room, was the evidence of fact.
He walked on--rapidly now--heading over in the direction of the Bowery.
There had been neither ink nor pen upon the desk where he had found the
confession, nor had there been a fountain pen in Forrester's pocket when
he had searched the other! He laughed out a little harshly. A strange
oversight on some one's part if there had been foul play--so strange
that he had hesitated to believe it possible! And so it had been--one
chance in ten, for there was nothing to have prevented Forrester from
having written the note elsewhere than in his own room. But if Forrester
had written it, he must of necessity have written it very recently,
certainly _after_ he had telephoned, that is, within an hour; whereas,
if it had been written by some one else and brought there, if it was
forged, if it was murder and not suicide, the note must have taken long
and painstaking effort to prepare beforehand. That was the question that
old Kronische, the chemist, was to have answered, a question that was
very much in the cunning old fox's line--did the condition of the ink
show that the note had been written within the hour? It was a very
simple question for old Kronische, the man would have answered it
instantly, for even to him, Jimmie Dale, the writing had not looked
_fresh_. But there was no need of old Kronische now! And he, Jimmie
Dale, understood now, too, the reason for Forrester's appeal over the
telephone. In some way Forrester, without going to the bank itself, had
learned that the bank examiners had suddenly put in an appearance, had
either discovered or deduced that something was wrong, and had realised
that should Suviney's demand for money, or Suviney's blackmailing story
become known, it would appear as damning evidence of a past record
looming up to point suspicion toward him now. That was what he had meant
by saying he needed financial help.
Jimmie Dale slipped suddenly into a lane, edged along the wall of the
tenement that made the corner, pushed aside a loose board in the fence,
passed into the little courtyard beyond, and, still hugging the shadows
of the building, opened a narrow French window, and stepped through into
a room. He was in the Sanctuary.