THE “HOUR”
As the minutes passed, many of them, Jimmie Dale sat there motionless,
staring before him at the desk that was faintly outlined in the
unlighted room. Then somewhere in the house a clock struck the hour.
Five o'clock! He raised his head. YES! It could be done! There was a
way! He had the germ of it now. And now the plan began to grow, to take
form and shape in his mind, to dovetail, to knit the integral parts into
a comprehensive whole. There was a way--but he must have assistance.
Jason--yes, assuredly. Benson, his chauffeur--yes, equally as
trustworthy as Jason. Benson was devoted to him; and moreover Benson was
young, alert, daring, cool. He had had more than one occasion to test
Benson's resourcefulness and nerve!
Jimmie Dale rose abruptly, went to the rear window, and, parting the
curtains cautiously, stood peering down into the courtyard. Yes, it
was feasible; even a little more than feasible. The garage fronted the
driveway, of course, to give free entrance and egress to the cars, but
where the wall of the garage and the rear wall of the house overlapped,
as it were, the space between them was not much more than ten yards;
and here the shadows of the two walls, mingling, lay like a black,
impenetrable pathway--not like that other shadow he had seen moving at
the side of the garage, and that, if not for the moment discernible, was
none the less surely still lurking there!
Satisfied, Jimmie Dale swung briskly from the window, and, going now
to his bedroom across the hall, undressed and went to bed--but not to
sleep. There would be time enough to sleep, all day, if he wished; now,
there were still the little details to be thought out that, more than
anything else, could make or wreck his plans. A point overdone, the
faintest suggestion of a false note where men of the calibre of those
against whom he was now fighting for his life were concerned, would
not only make his scheme abortive, but would place him utterly at their
mercy.
It was nine o'clock when he rang for Jason.
“Jason,” he said abruptly, as the other entered, “I want you to
telephone for Doctor Merlin.”
“The doctor, sir!” exclaimed the old man anxiously. “You're--you're not
ill, Master Jim, sir?”
“Do I look ill, Jason?” inquired Jimmie Dale gravely.
“Well, sir,” admitted Jason, in concern; “a bit done up, sir, perhaps. A
little pale, sir; though I'm sure--”
“I'm glad to hear it,” said Jimmie Dale, sitting up in bed. “The worse I
look, the better!”
“I--I beg pardon, sir?” stammered Jason.
“Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, gravely again, “you have had reason to know
that on several occasions my life has been threatened. It is threatened
now. You know from last night that this house is now watched. You
may, or you may not have surmised--that our telephone wires have been
tapped.”
“Tapped, sir!”--Jason's face had gone a little gray.
“Yes; a party line, so to speak,” said Jimmie Dale grimly. “Do you
understand? You must be careful to say no more, no less than exactly
what I tell you to say. Now go and telephone! Ask the doctor to come
over and see me this morning. Simply say that I am not feeling well; but
that, apart from being apparently in a very nervous condition, you do
not know what is the matter.”
“Yes, sir--good Lord, sir!” gasped Jason--and left the room to carry out
his orders.
An hour later, Doctor Merlin had been and gone--and had left two
prescriptions; one written, the other verbal. With the written one,
Benson, in his chauffeur's livery, was dispatched to the drug store; the
verbal one was precisely what Jimmie Dale had expected from the fussy
old family physician: “Two or three days of quiet in the house James;
and if you need me again, let me know.”
“Now, Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, when the old man had returned from
ushering Doctor Merlin from the house, “our friends out there will be
anxious to learn the verdict. I was to dine with the Ross-Hendersons
to-morrow night, was I not?”
“Yes, sir; I think so, sir.”
“Make sure!” said Jimmie Dale. “Look in my engagement book there on the
table.”
Jason looked.
“Yes, sir, that's right,” he announced.
“Very good,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “Now go and telephone again,
Jason. Present my regrets and excuses to the Ross-Hendersons, and say
that under the doctor's orders I am confined to the house for the next
few days--and, Jason!”
“Yes, sir?”
“When Benson returns with the medicine let him bring it here
himself--and I shall want you as well.”
Jimmie Dale propped himself up a little wearily on the pillows, as Jason
went out of the room. After all, his condition was not entirely feigned.
He was, as a matter of fact, pretty well played out, both mentally and
physically. Certainly, that he should require a doctor and be confined
to the house could not arouse suspicion even in the minds of those
alert, aristocratic thugs of the Crime Club, prone as they would be
to suspect anything--a man who had been knocked unconscious in an
automobile smash the night before, had been in a fight, had been
subjected to a terrific mental shock, to say nothing of the infernal
drug that had been administered to him, might well be expected to be
indisposed the next morning, and for several mornings following that!
It might, indeed, even cause them to relax their vigilance for the time
being--though he dared build nothing on that. Well, he had only to coach
Benson and Jason in the parts they were to play, and the balance of the
morning and all the afternoon was his in which to rest.
He reached over to the table, picked up a pencil and paper, and began to
jot down memoranda. He had just tossed the pencil back on the table as
the two men entered.
Jason, at a sign, closed the door quietly.
Jimmie Dale looked at Benson half musingly, half whimsically, for a
moment before he spoke.
“Benson,” he said, “the back seat of the large touring car is hinged and
lifts up, once the cushion is removed, doesn't it?”
“Yes, sir,” Benson answered promptly.
“And there's space enough for, say, a man inside, isn't there?”
“Why, yes, sir; I suppose so--at a squeeze”--Benson stared blankly.
“Quite so!” said Jimmie Dale calmly. “Now, another matter, Benson: I
believe some chauffeurs have a habit, when occasion lends itself, of
taking, shall we say, their 'best girl' out riding in their masters'
machines?”
“SOME might,” Benson replied, a little stiffly. “I hope you don't think,
sir, that--”
“One moment, Benson. The point is, it's done--quite generally?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have a 'best girl,' or at least could find one for such a
purpose, if you were so inclined?”
“Yes, sir,” said Benson; “but--”
“Very good!” Jimmie Dale interrupted. “Then to-night, Benson, taking
advantage of my illness, and to-morrow night, and the nights after
that until further notice, you will acquire and put into practice that
reprehensible habit.”
“I--I don't understand, Mr. Dale.”
“No; I dare say not,” said Jimmie Dale--and then the whimsicality
dropped from him. “Benson,” he said slowly, “do you remember a night,
nearly four years ago, the first night you ever saw me? You had,
indiscreetly, I think, displayed more money than was wise in that East
Side neighbourhood.”
“I remember,” said Benson, with a sudden start; then simply: “I wouldn't
be here now, sir, if it hadn't been for you.”
“Well,” said Jimmie Dale quietly, “the tables are turned to-day, Benson.
As Jason already knows, this house is watched. For reasons that I cannot
explain, I am in great danger. Bluntly, I am putting my life in your
hands--and Jason's.”
Benson looked for an instant from Jimmie Dale to Jason, caught the
strained, troubled expression on the old man's face, then back again at
Jimmie Dale.
“D'ye mean that, sir!” he cried. “Then you can count on me, Mr. Dale, to
the last ditch!”
“I know that, Benson,” Jimmie Dale said softly. “And now, both of you,
listen! It is imperative that I should get away from the house; and
equally imperative that those watching should believe that I am still
here. Not even the servants are to be permitted a suspicion that I am
not here in my bed, ill. That, Jason, is your task. You will allow
no one to wait on me but yourself; you will bring the meal trays up
regularly--and eat the food yourself. You will answer all inquiries,
telephone and otherwise, in person--I am not seeing any one. You
understand perfectly, Jason?”
“I understand, Master Jim. You need have no fear, sir, on that score.”
“Now, you, Benson,” Jimmie Dale went on. “A few minutes ago I sent
you out in your chauffeur's togs with that prescription. You were
undoubtedly observed. I wanted you to be. It was quite necessary that
they should know and be able to recognise you again--to disabuse their
minds later on of the possibility that I might be masquerading in your
clothes; and also, of course, that they should know who you were, and
what your position was in the household. Very well! To-night, at eight
o'clock exactly, you are to go out from the back door of the house to
the garage. On the way out--it will be quite dark then--I want you to
drop something, say, a bunch of keys that you had been jingling in your
hand. You are to experience some difficulty in finding it again, move
about a little to force any one that may be lurking by the garage to
retreat around the corner. Grumble a bit and make a little noise; but
you are not to overdo it--a couple of minutes at the outside is enough,
by that time I shall be under the car seat. You will then run the
machine out to the street and stop at the curb, jump out, and, as though
you had forgotten something, hurry back to the garage. You must not be
away long--enough only to permit, say, a passer-by to glance into the
car and satisfy himself that it is empty. You understand, of course,
Benson, that the hood must be down--no closed car to invite even the
suggestion of concealment--that would be a fatal blunder. Drive then
to the young lady's home by as direct a route as you can--give no
appearance of being aware that you are followed, as you will be, and
much less the appearance of attempting to elude pursuit. Act naturally.
Between here and your destination I will manage readily enough to leave
the car. You will then take the young lady for her drive--that is what
they will be interested in--your motive for going out to-night. And, as
I said, take her driving again on each succeeding night--establish the
HABIT to their satisfaction.”
Jimmie Dale paused, glanced at the paper which he still held in his
hand, then handed it to Benson.
“Just one thing more, Benson,” he said: “Listed on that paper you will
find a different rendezvous for each night for the next five nights,
excluding to-night, which, after you have returned the young lady to her
home, you are to pass by on your way back here. See that your drive is
always over in time for you to pass each night's rendezvous at half
past eleven sharp. Don't stop unless I signal you. If I am not there,
go right on home, and be at the next place on the following night. I am
fairly well satisfied they will not bother about you after to-night,
or to-morrow night at the most; but, for all that, you must take no
chances, so, except in the route you take in going to the young lady's,
always avoid covering the same ground twice, which might give the
appearance of having some ulterior purpose in view--even in your drives,
vary your runs. Is this clear, Benson?”
“Yes, sir,” said Benson earnestly.
“Very well, then,” said Jimmie Dale. “Eight o'clock to the dot,
Benson--compare your time with Jason's. And now, Jason, see that I get a
chance to sleep until dinner time to-night.”
The hours that followed were hours of sound and much-needed sleep for
Jimmie Dale, and from which he awoke only on Jason's entrance that
evening with the dinner tray.
“I've slept like a log, Jason!” he cried briskly, as he leaped out of
bed. “Anything new--anything happened?”
“No, sir; not a thing,” Jason answered. “Only, Master Jim, sir”--the old
man twisted his hands nervously--“I--you'll excuse my saying so, sir--I
do hope you'll be careful to-night, sir. I can't help being afraid that
something'll happen to you, Master Jim.”
“Nonsense, Jason!” Jimmie Dale laughed cheerfully. “There's nothing
going to happen--to me! You go ahead now and stay with the servants, and
get them out of the road at the proper time.”
He bathed, dressed, ate his dinner, and was slipping cartridges into the
magazine of his automatic when, within a minute or two of eight o'clock,
Jason's whisper came from the doorway.
“It's all clear now, Master Jim, sir.”
“Right!” Jimmie Dale responded--and followed Jason down the stairway,
and to the head of the cellar stairs.
Here Jason halted.
“God keep you, Master Jim!” said the old man huskily. “Good-night,
Jason,” Jimmie Dale answered softly; and, with a reassuring squeeze on
the other's arm, went on down to the cellar.
Here he moved quickly, noiselessly across to the window--not the
window of the night before, but another of the same description, almost
directly beneath the one in his den above, that faced the garage and lay
in the line of that black shadow path between the two buildings. Deftly,
cautiously without sound, a half inch, an inch at a time he opened it.
He stood listening, then. A minute passed. Then he heard Benson open and
shut the back door; then Benson in the yard; and then Benson's voice in
a muttered and irritable growl, talking to himself, as he stamped around
on the ground.
With a lithe, agile movement, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up and through
the window--and began to creep rapidly on hands and knees toward
the garage. It was dark, intensely dark. He could barely distinguish
Benson's form, though, as he passed the other, the slight sounds he made
drowned out by the chauffeur's angry mumblings, he could have reached
out and touched Benson easily.
He gained the interior of the garage, and, as Benson, came on again,
stepped lightly into the car, lifted the seat, and wriggled his way
inside.
It was close, stuffy, abominably cramped, but Jimmie Dale was smiling
grimly now. Thanks to Benson, there wasn't a possibility that he had
been seen. He both felt and heard Benson start the car. Then the car
moved forward, ran the length of the driveway, bumped slightly as it
made the street--and stopped. He heard Benson jump out and run back--and
then he listened intently, and the grim smile flickered on his lips
again. Came the sound of a footstep on the sidewalk close beside the
car--then silence--the car shook a little as though some one's weight
was on the step--then the footsteps receded--Benson returned on the
run--and the car started forward once more.
Perhaps ten minutes passed. Three times the car had swerved sharply,
making a corner turn. Then Jimmie Dale pushed up the seat, and,
protected from observation from behind by the back of the car itself,
crawled out and crouched down on the floor of the tonneau.
“Don't look around, Benson,” he said calmly. “Are we followed?”
“Yes, sir.” Benson answered. “At least, there's always been a car behind
us, though not the same one. They're pretty clever. There must be three
or four, each following the other. Every time I turn a corner it's a
different car that turns it behind me.”
“How far behind?” Jimmie Dale asked.
“Half a block.”
“Slow down a little,” instructed Jimmie Dale; “and don't turn another
corner until they've had a chance to accommodate themselves to your new
speed. You are going too fast for me to jump, and I don't want them to
notice any change in speed, except what is made in plain sight. Yes;
that's better. Where are we, Benson?”
“That's Amsterdam Avenue ahead,” replied Benson.
“All right,” said Jimmie Dale quietly. “Turn into it. The more people
the better. Tell me just as you are about to turn.”
“Yes, sir,” said Benson; then, almost on the instant, “All ready, sir!”
Jimmie Dale's hand reached out for the door catch, edged the door ajar,
the car swerved, took the corner--and Jimmie Dale stepped out on the
running board, hung there negligently for a moment as though chatting
with Benson, and then with an airy “good-night” dropped nonchalantly
to the ground, and the next instant had mingled with the throng of
pedestrians on the sidewalk.
A half minute later, a large gray automobile turned the corner and
followed Benson--and Jimmie Dale, stepping out into the street again,
swung on a downtown car. The road to the Sanctuary was open!
In his impatience, now, the street car seemed to drag along every foot
of the way; but a glance at his watch, as he finally reached the Bowery,
and, walking then, rapidly approached the cross street a few steps ahead
that led to the Sanctuary, told him that it was still but a quarter to
nine. But even at that he quickened his steps a little. He was free now!
There was a sort of savage, elemental uplift upon him. He was free! He
could strike now in his own defense--and hers! In a few moments he would
be at the Sanctuary; in a few more he would be Larry the Bat, and by
to-morrow at the latest he would see--The Tocsin. After all, that “hour”
was not to be taken from him! It was not, perhaps, the hour that she had
meant it should be, thought and prayed, perhaps, that it might be! It
was not the hour of victory. But it was the hour that meant to him the
realisation of the years of longing, the hour when he should see her,
see her for the first time face to face, when there should be no more
barriers between them, when--
“Fer Gawd's sake, mister, buy a pencil!”
A hand was plucking at his sleeve, the thin voice was whining in his
ear. He halted mechanically. A woman, old, bedraggled, ragged, was
thrusting a bunch of cheap pencils imploringly toward him--and then,
with a stifled cry, Jimmie Dale leaned forward. The eyes that lifted to
his for an instant were bright and clear with the vigor of youth, great
eyes of brown they were, and trouble, hope, fear, wistfulness, ay, and
a glorious shyness were in their depths. And then the voice he knew so
well, the Tocsin's was whispering hurriedly:
“I will be waiting here, Jimmie--for Larry the Bat.”