THE CALL TO ARMS
Not a sound as the key turned in the lock; not a sound as the door swung
back on its carefully oiled hinges; not a sound as Larry the Bat slipped
like a shadow into the blackness of the room, closing the door behind
him again. With a tread as noiseless as a cat's, he was across the room
to satisfy himself that the shutters were tightly closed; and then the
single gas jet flared up, murky, yellow, illuminating the miserable,
squalid room--the Sanctuary--the home of Larry the Bat. There was need
for silence, need for caution. In five minutes, ten at the outside, he
must emerge again--as Jimmie Dale.
With a smile on his lips that mingled curiously chagrin and
self-commiseration, he took the letter from his pocket and tore it open.
It was she, then, who had been following him all evening, and, like a
blundering idiot, he had wasted precious, perhaps irreparable, hours!
What had she meant by “It's for my sake to-night”? The words had been
ringing in his ears since the moment she had whispered them in that
panic-stricken crowd. Was it not always for her sake that he answered
these calls to arms? Was it not always for her sake that he, as the
Gray Seal, was--The mental soliloquy came to an abrupt end. He had
subconsciously read the first sentence of the letter, and now, with
sudden feverish eagerness and excitement, he was reading it to the last
word.
“DEAR PHILANTHROPIC CROOK: In an hour after you receive this, if all
goes well, you shall know everything--everything. Who I am--yes, and
my name. It has been more than three years now, hasn't it? It has been
incomprehensible to you, but there has been no other way. I dared not
take the chance of discovery by any one; I dared not expose you to
the risk of being known by me. Your life would not have been worth
a moment's purchase. Oh, Jimmie, am I only making the mystery more
mystifying? But to-night, I think, I hope, I pray that it is all at an
end: though against me, and against you to-night when you go to help
me, is the most powerful and pitiless organisation of criminals that the
world has ever known; and the stake we are playing for is a fortune of
millions--and my life. And yet somehow I am afraid now, just because the
end is so near, and the victory seems so surely won. And so, Jimmie, be
careful; use all that wonderful cleverness of yours as you have never
used it before, and--But there should be no need for that, it is so
simple a thing that I am going to ask you to do. Why am I writing so
illogically! Nothing, surely, can possibly happen. This is not like
one of my usual letters, is it? I am beside myself to-night with hope,
anxiety, fear, and excitement.
“Listen, then, Jimmie: Be at the northeast corner of Sixth Avenue and
Waverly Place at exactly half-past ten. A taxicab will drive up, as
though you had signalled it in passing, and the chauffeur will say:
'I've another fare, in half an hour, sir, but I can get you most
anywhere in that time.' You will be smoking a cigarette. Toss it out
into the street, make any reply you like, and get into the cab. Give the
chauffeur that little ring of mine with the crest of the bell and belfry
and the motto, 'Sonnez le Tocsin,' that you found the night old Isaac
Pelina was murdered, and the chauffeur will give you in exchange a
sealed packet of papers. He will drive you to your home, and I will
telephone to you there.
“I need not tell you to destroy this. Keep the appointment in your
proper person--as Jimmie Dale. Carry nothing that might identify you
as the Gray Seal if any accident should happen. And, lastly, trust the
pseudo chauffeur absolutely.”
There was no signature. Her letters were never signed. He stood for a
moment staring at the closely written sheets in his hand, a heightened
colour in his cheeks, his lips pressed tightly together--and then his
fingers automatically began to tear the letter into pieces, and the
pieces again into little shreds. To-night! It was to be to-night, the
end of all this mystery. To-night was to see the end of this dual life
of his, with its constant peril! To-night the Gray Seal was to exit from
the stage forever! To-night, a wonderful climax of the years, he was to
see HER!
His blood was quickened now, his heart pounding in a faster beat; a mad
elation, a fierce uplift was upon him. He thrust the torn bits of paper
into his pocket hurriedly, stepped across the room to the corner, rolled
back the oilcloth, and lifted up the loose plank in the flooring, so
innocently dustladen, as, more than once, to have eluded the eyes of
inquisitive visitors in the shape of police and plain clothes men from
headquarters.
From the space beneath he removed a neatly folded pile of clothes, laid
these on the bed, and began to undress. He was working rapidly now. Tiny
pieces of wax were removed from his nostrils, from under his lips, from
behind his ears; water from a cracked pitcher poured into a battered tin
basin, and mixed with a few drops of some liquid from a bottle which he
procured from its hiding place under the flooring, banished the make-up
stain from his face, his neck, his wrists, and hands as if by magic.
It was a strange metamorphosis that had taken place--the coarse,
brutal-featured, blear-eyed, leering countenance of Larry the Bat was
gone, and in its place, clean-cut, square-jawed, clear-eyed, was the
face of Jimmie Dale. And where before had slouched a slope-shouldered,
misshapen, flabby creature, a broad-shouldered form well over six feet
in height now stood erect, and under the clean white skin the muscles
of an athlete, like knobs of steel played back and forth with every
movement of his body.
In the streaked and broken mirror Jimmie Dale surveyed himself
critically, methodically, and, with a nod of satisfaction, hastily
donned the fashionably cut suit of tweeds upon the bed. He rummaged then
through the ragged garments he had just discarded, transferred to
his pockets a roll of bills and his automatic, and paused hesitantly,
staring at the thin metal case, like a cigarette case, that he held in
the palm of his hand. He shrugged his shoulders a little whimsically; it
seemed strange indeed that he was through with that! He snapped it
open. Within, between sheets of oil paper, lay the scores of little
diamond-shaped, gray-coloured, adhesive paper seals--the insignia of the
Gray Seal. Yes, it seemed strange that he was never to use another! He
closed the case, gathered up the clothes of Larry the Bat, tucked
the case in among them, and shoved the bundle into the hole under the
flooring. All these things would have to be destroyed, but there was not
time to-night; to-morrow, or the next day, would do for that. What would
it be like to live a normal life again, without the menace of danger
lurking on every hand, without that grim slogan of the underworld,
“Death to the Gray Seal!” or that savage fiat of the police, “The Gray
Seal, dead or alive--but the Gray Seal!” forever ringing in his ears?
What would it be like, this new life--with her?
The thought was thrilling him again, bringing again that eager, exultant
uplift. In an hour, ONE hour, and the barriers of years would be swept
away, and she would be in his arms!
“It's for my sake to-night!” His face grew suddenly tense, as the words
came back to him. That “hour” wasn't over yet! It was no hysterical
exaggeration that had prompted her to call her enemies the most powerful
and pitiless organisation of criminals that the world had ever known.
It was not the Tocsin's way to exaggerate. The words would be literally
true. The very life she had led for the three years that had gone stood
out now as a grim proof of her assertion.
Jimmie Dale replaced the flooring, carefully brushed the dust back into
the cracks, spread the oilcloth into place, and stood up. Who and what
was this organisation? What was between it and the Tocsin? What was this
immense fortune that was at stake? And what was this priceless packet
that was so crucial, that meant victory now, ay, and her life, too, she
had said?
The questions swept upon him in a sort of breathless succession. Why had
she not let him play a part in this? True, she had told him why--that
she dared not expose him to the risk. Risk! Was there any risk that the
Gray Seal had not taken, and at her instance! He did not understand, he
smiled a little uncertainly, as he reached up to turn out the gas. There
were a good many things that he did not understand about the Tocsin!
The room was in darkness, and with the darkness Jimmie Dale's mind
centred on the work immediately before him. To enter the tenement where
he was known and had an acknowledged right as Larry the Bat was one
thing; for Jimmie Dale to be discovered there was quite another.
He crossed the room, opened the door silently, stood for a moment
listening, then stepped out into the black, musty, ill-smelling hallway,
closing the door behind him. He stooped and locked it. The querulous cry
of a child reached him from somewhere above--a murmur of voices, muffled
by closed doors, from everywhere. How many families were housed beneath
that sordid roof he had never known, only that there was miserable
poverty there as well as vice and crime, only that Larry the Bat, who
possessed a room all to himself, was as some lordly and super-being to
these fellow tenants who shared theirs with so many that there was not
air enough for all to breathe.
He had no doors to pass--his was next to the staircase. He began to
descend. They could scream and shriek, those stairs, like aged humans,
twisted and rheumatic, at the least ungentle touch. But there was no
sound from them now. There seemed something almost uncanny in the
silent tread. Stair after stair he descended, his entire weight thrown
gradually upon one foot before the other was lifted. The strain upon the
muscles, trained and hardened as they were, told. As he moved from the
bottom step, he wiped little beads of perspiration from his forehead.
The door, now, that gave on the alleyway! He opened it, slipped outside,
darted across the narrow lane, stole along where the shadows of the
fence were blackest, paused, listening, as he reached the end of the
alleyway, to assure himself that there was no near-by pedestrian--and
stepped out into the street.
He kept on along the block, turned into the Bowery, and, under the first
lamp, consulted his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He could make
it easily in a leisurely walk. He continued on up the Bowery, finally
crossed to Broadway, and shortly afterward turned into Waverly Place.
At the corner of Fifth Avenue he consulted his watch again--and now he
lighted a cigarette. Sixth Avenue was only a block away. At precisely
half-past ten, to the second, he halted on the designated corner,
smoking nonchalantly.
A taxicab, coincidentally coming from an uptown direction, swung in to
the curb.
“Taxi, sir? Yes, sir?” Then, with an admirable mingling of eagerness to
secure the fare and a fear that his confession might cause him the loss
of it: “I've another fare in half an hour, sir, but I can get you most
anywhere in that time.”
Jimmie Dale's cigarette was tossed carelessly into the street.
“St. James Club!” he said curtly, and stepped into the cab.
The cab started forward, turned the corner, and headed along Waverly
Place toward Broadway. The chauffeur twisted around in his seat in a
matter-of-fact way, as though to ask further directions.
“Have you anything for me?” he inquired casually.
It lay where it always lay, that ring, between the folds of that little
white glove in his pocketbook. Jimmie Dale took it out now, and handed
it silently to the chauffeur.
The other's face changed instantly--composure was gone, and a quick,
strained look was in its place.
“I'm afraid I've been watched,” he said tersely. “Look behind you, will
you, and tell me if you see anything?”
Jimmie Dale glanced backward through the little window in the hood.
“There's another taxi just turned in from Sixth Avenue,” he reported the
next instant.
“Keep your eye on it!” instructed the chauffeur shortly.
The speed of the cab increased sensibly.
With a curious tightening of his lips, Jimmie Dale settled himself
in his seat so that he could watch the cab behind. There was trouble
coming, intuitively he sensed that; and, he reflected bitterly, he might
have known! It was too marvellous, too wonderful ever to come to pass
that this one hour, the thought of which had fired his blood and made
him glad beyond any gladness life had ever held for him before, should
bring its promised happiness.
“Where's the cab now?” the chauffeur flung back over his shoulder.
They had passed Fifth Avenue, and were nearing Broadway.
“About the same distance behind,” Jimmie Dale answered.
“That looks bad!” the chauffeur gritted between his teeth. “We'll have
to make sure. I'll run down Lower Broadway.”
“If you think we're followed,” suggested Jimmie Dale quietly, “why not
run uptown and give them the slip somewhere where the traffic is thick?
Lower Broadway at this time of night is as empty and deserted as a
country road.”
The chauffeur's sudden laugh was mirthless.
“My God, you don't know what you are talking about!” he burst out. “If
they're following, all hell couldn't throw them off the track. And I've
got to know, I've got to be SURE before I dare make a move to-night. I
couldn't tell up in the crowded districts if I was followed, could I?
They won't come out into the open until their hands are forced.”
The car swerved sharply, rounded the corner, and, speeding up faster and
faster, began to tear down Lower Broadway.
“Watch! WATCH!” cried the chauffeur.
There was no word between them for a moment; then Jimmie Dale spoke
crisply:
“It's turned the corner! It's coming this way!”
The taxicab was rocking violently with the speed; silent, empty, Lower
Broadway stretched away ahead. Apart from an occasional street car,
probably there would be nothing between them and the Battery. Jimmie
Dale glanced at his companion's face as a light, flashing by, threw
it into relief. It was set and stern, even a little haggard; but, too,
there was something else there, something that appealed instantly to
Jimmie Dale--a sort of bulldog grit that dominated it.
“If he holds our speed, we'll know!” the chauffeur was shouting now to
make himself heard over the roar of the car. “Look again! Where is it
now?”
Once more Jimmie Dale looked through the little rear window. The cab had
been a block behind them when it had turned the corner, and he watched
it now in a sort of grim fascination. There was no possible doubt of it!
The two bobbing, bouncing headlights were creeping steadily nearer. And
then a sort of unnatural calm settled upon Jimmie Dale, and his hand
went mechanically to his pocket to feel his automatic there, as he
turned again to the chauffeur.
“If you've got any more speed, you'd better use it!” he said
significantly.
The man shot a quick look at him.
“They are following us? You are SURE?”
“Yes,” said Jimmie Dale.
The chauffeur laughed again in that mirthless, savage way.
“Lean over here, where I can talk to you!” he rasped out. “The game's
up, as far as I am concerned, I guess! But there's a chance for you.
They don't know you in this.”
“Give her more speed--or dodge into a cross street!” suggested Jimmie
Dale coolly. “They haven't got us yet, by a long way!”
The other shook his head.
“It's not only that cab behind,” he answered, through set lips. “You
don't know what we're up against. If they're really after us, there's
a trap laid in every section of this city--the devils! It's the package
they want. Thank God for the presentiment that made me leave it behind!
I was going back for it, you understand, if I was satisfied that we
weren't followed. Listen! There's a chance for you--there's none for me.
That package--remember this!--no one else knows where it is, and it's
life and death to the one who sent you here. It's in Box 428 at--My God,
LOOK! Look there!” he yelled, and, with a wrench at the wheel, sent the
taxi lurching and staggering for the car tracks in the centre of the
street.
The scene, fast as thought itself, was photographing itself in every
detail upon Jimmie Dale's brain. From the cross street ahead, one from
each corner, two motor cars had nosed out into Broadway, blocking the
road on both sides. And now the car on the left-hand side was
moving forward across the tracks to counteract the chauffeur's move,
deliberately insuring a collision. There was no chance, no further
room to turn, no time to stop--the man driving the other car jumped for
safety--they would be into it in an instant.
“Box 428!” Jimmie pleaded fiercely. “Go on, man! Go on! FINISH!”
“Yes!” cried the chauffeur. “John Johansson, at--”
But Jimmie Dale heard no more. There was the crash of impact as the
taxicab plowed into the car that had been so craftily manoeuvered in
front of it, and Jimmie Dale, lifted from his feet, was hurled violently
forward with the shock, and all went black before his eyes.