THE MAGPIE
A minute passed--another. The automatic at Jimmie Dale's hip, the muzzle
just peeping over the table top, held a steady bead on the window. Came
the footstep again--and then suddenly, a series of low, quick tappings
upon the windowpane. The Tocsin's hand slipped away from his arm.
Jimmie Dale's set face relaxed as he read the underground Morse, and he
replaced his revolver slowly in his pocket.
“The Magpie!” said Jimmie Dale, in an undertone. “What's he want?”
“I don't know,” she answered, in a whisper. “He never came here before.
There's a back way out, Jimmie, if you--”
“No,” he said quickly. “We've enemies enough, with out making one of
the Magpie. He knows some one is here with you--our shadows were on the
blind. Don't queer yourself. Let him in. I'll light the lamp.”
He struck a match, as she ran from the room, and, lifting the hot lamp
chimney with the edge of his ragged coat, lighted the lamp. He turned
the wick down a little, shading and dimming the room--and then, as he
flirted a bead of moisture from his forehead, whimsically stretched out
his hand to watch it in the lamplight.
“That's bad, Jimmie,” he muttered gravely to himself, as he noted an
almost imperceptible tremour. “Got a start, didn't you! Under a bit of a
strain, eh? Well”--grimly--“never mind! It looks as though the luck had
turned Makoff and Spider Jack!”
His hand reached up to his hat, jerked the brim at a rakish angle over
his eyes--and he sprawled himself out on a chair. He heard the Tocsin's
voice at the front door, and a man's voice, low and guarded, answer her.
Then the door closed, and their steps approached the room. It was rather
curious, that--a visit from the Magpie! What could the Magpie want? What
could there be in common between the Magpie and Silver Mag? The Magpie,
alias Slimmy Joe, was counted the cleverest safe worker in the United
States, barring only and always one--a smile flickered across the lips
of Larry the Bat--one whose pre-eminence the Magpie, much to his own
chagrin, admitted himself--the Gray Seal!
He looked up, twisting the stub of a cigarette between his grimy fingers
and fumbling for a match, as the Tocsin and, behind her, the Magpie,
short, slim, and wiry, shrewd-faced, with sharp, quick-glancing little
black eyes, entered the room.
“'Ello, Larry!” grinned the Magpie. “Got yer breath back yet? I felt it
through de windowpane when youse let go at de lamp!”
“'Ello, Slimmy!” returned Jimmie Dale ungraciously, speaking through the
corner of his mouth. “Ferget it!”
“Sure!” said the Magpie unconcernedly. He stared about him, and finally,
drawing a chair up to the table, sat down, motioned the Tocsin to do the
same, and leaned forward amiably. “I didn't mean to throw no scare into
youse,” he said, in a conciliating tone. “But I had a little business
wid Mag, an' I was kind of interested in whether she was entertainin'
company or not--see? I didn't know youse an' Mag was workin' together.”
“Mabbe,” observed Jimmie Dale, as ungraciously as before, “mabbe dere's
some more t'ings youse don't know!”
“Aw, cough up de grouch!” advised the Magpie, with a hint of impatience
creeping into his voice. “Youse don't need to be sore all night! I told
youse I wasn't tryin' to hand youse one, didn't I?”
“Never mind Larry, Slimmy,” put in the Tocsin petulantly. “He's down on
his luck, dat's all. He ain't had de price of a pinch of coke fer two
days.”
“Oho!” exclaimed the Magpie, grinning again. “So dat's wot's givin'
youse de pip, eh, Larry? Well, den, say, youse can take it from me dat
mabbe youse'll be glad I blew around. I was lookin' fer a guy about
yer size fer a little job to-night, an' I was t'inkin' of lettin' Young
Dutchy in on it, but seem' youse are here an' in wid Mag, an' dat I got
to get Mag in, too, youse are on if youse say de word.”
“Wot's de lay?” inquired Larry the Bat, unbending a little.
The Magpie cocked his eye, and stuck his tongue in his cheek.
“GOOD-night!” he said tersely. “Nothin' like dat! Are youse on, or ain't
youse?”
“Well, den, wot's in it fer me?” persisted Larrry the Bat.
“More'n de price of a coke sneeze!” returned the Magpie pertinently.
“Dere's a century note fer youse, an' mabbe two or t'ree of dem fer
Mag.”
Larry the Bat's eyes gleamed avariciously.
“Aw, quit yer kiddin'!” he said gruffly. “A century note--fer me!”
“Dat's wot I said! Youse heard me!” rejoined the Magpie shortly. “Only
if it listens good to youse now, I don't want no squealin' after the
divvy. I'm takin' de chances, youse has de soft end of it. One century
note fer youse--an' de rest is none of yer business! Dat's puttin' it
straight, ain't it? Well, wot do youse say, an' say it quick--'cause if
youse ain't comin' in, youse can beat it out of here so's I can talk to
Mag.”
“Dere ain't nothin' I wouldn't take a chance on fer a hundred plunks!”
declared Larry the Bat, with sudden fervency--and stared, anxiously
expectant, at the Magpie. “Sure, I'm on Slimmy! Sure, I am! Cut it
loose! Spill de story!”
“Well, den,” said the Magpie, “I wants--”
“Youse ain't through yet!” interrupted the Tocsin tartly. “I ain't heard
youse askin' me nothin'! I ain't on me uppers like Larry, an' mabbe de
price don't cut so much ice--see?”
“Aw,” said the Magpie, with a smirk, “I don't have to ask youse on dis
lay. Dis is where youse'd come in on it fer marbles. Say, dis is where
we gets de hook into a guy by de name of Henry LaSalle! Get me?”
HENRY LASALLE! Under the table, Jimmie Dale's hand clenched suddenly;
but not a muscle of his face moved, save, as with the tip of his tongue,
he shifted the butt of the cigarette that was hanging royally from his
lower lip to the other corner of his mouth.
“Sure! She's 'got' youse, Slimmy!” he flung out, with a grin, as the
Tocsin wrinkled up her face menacingly and began to mumble to herself.
“He's de guy dat handed her one when she was young, an' she's been
layin' fer him ever since! Sure! I know! Ain't I worked him fer her till
I wears me shoes out tryin' to get somet'ing on him! Sure, she's in on
it! Go on, Slimmy, wot's de lay? Wot do I do fer dat century?”
The Magpie hitched his chair closer to the table and, as his sharp,
little, ferret eyes glanced around the room, motioned the two to brings
their heads nearer.
“One of me influential broker friends down on Wall Street put me wise,”
he said, with a wink. “Dat's good enough fer youse two, as far as dat
goes. But take it from me, I got it dead straight.” He lowered his voice
“Say, he's one of de richest mugs in New York, ain't he? Well, he's been
sellin' stocks an' bonds all day, t'ousands an' t'ousands of dollars'
worth--fer cash.”
“All dem t'ings is always sold fer cash,” remarked Larry the Bat
fatuously.
“Aw, ferget it!” said the Magpie earnestly. “Fer CASH, I said--de coin,
de long green--understand? He wasn't shovin' no checks fer what he sold
into de bank except to get dem cashed. Dat's wot he's been doin' all
day--gettin' de checks cashed, an' gettin' de money in big bills--see! I
know of one bunch of eighty t'ousand--an' dat's only one!”
“Wot fer?” inquired Larry the Bat. It was the question that was pounding
at his brain, as he stared innocently at the Magpie. What did it mean?
Why was Henry LaSalle turning, and, if the Magpie was right, feverishly
turning every security he could lay his hands on into cash? And then,
in a flash, the answer came. THEY HAD NOT FOUND THE PACKAGE! Equally
to them, as to the Tocsin, sitting there before him, it meant life and
death. If the package were found by the Tocsin instead of themselves,
the game was up! They were preparing for eventualities. If they were
forced to run at a moment's notice, they at least were not going to
run empty-handed! Far from empty-handed, it seemed! It would not be
difficult for the estate's executor to realise a vast sum in short order
on instantly marketable, gilt-edged securities--say, half a million
dollars. Not very bulky, either--in large bills! Five thousand
hundred-dollar bills would make half a million. It was astonishing
how small a hand bag, say, might hold a fortune! “Wot fer, Slimmy?” he
inquired again, wiggling his cigarette butt on his tongue tip. “Wot'd he
do dat fer?”
“How de hell do youse suppose I knows!” demanded the Magpie, politely
scornful. “Dat's his business--dat ain't wot's worryin' me!”
“No--sure, it ain't!” admitted Larry the Bat ingratiatingly. “But go on,
keep movin', Slimmy! Wot's he done wid de stuff?”
“Done wid it!” echoed the Magpie, with a short laugh. “Wot do youse
t'ink! He's been luggin' it home to his swell joint up dere on de
avenoo, an' crammin' his safe full of it.”
Larry the Bat sucked in his breath.
“Gee, dat's soft!” he murmured, and then suddenly, as though with
painful inspiration: “Say, Slimmy--say, are youse sure youse ain't been
handed a steer?”
The Magpie grinned wickedly.
“I ain't fallin' fer steers!” he said shortly. “Dis is on de level.”
Jimmie Dale lurched up from his chair, and, leaning over the lamp
chimney, drew wheezily on his cigarette to get a light. His eyes sought
the Tocsin's face. To all intents and purposes she was entirely absorbed
in the Magpie. He sat down again to gape, with well-stimulated, doglike
admiration, at Slimmy Joe. WAS THIS, TOO, A PLANT? Why had the Magpie
come to THEM with this story of Henry LaSalle? And then, the next
instant, as the Magpie spoke, his suspicions were allayed.
“Let's get down to cases!” the Magpie invited crisply. “I didn't blow
in here just by luck. Dis Henry LaSalle is de guy youse worked fer once,
ain't he, Mag? Dat's de spiel, ain't it?--he sent youse up fer pinchin'
de tacks out of his carpets!”
“I never pinched nothin'!” snarled Silver Mag truculently. “He's a dirty
liar! I never did!”
“Cut it out! Cut it out! Can dat!” complained the Magpie patiently. “De
point is, youse worked in his house, didn't youse?”
“Sure I did!” snapped the Tocsin, sullenly aggressive; “but--”
“Well, den, dat's wot I want, dat's wot I come fer, Mag--a plan of de
house. See?”
Jimmie Dale could feel the Tocsin's eyes upon him, questioning,
searching, seeking a cue. A plan of the house--yes or no? And a decision
on the instant!
“Sure!” said Larry the Bat brightly. “Dat's wot I was t'inkin' youse
were after all de time. Say, youse are all right, Slimmy! Youse are de
kind to work wid! Go on, Mag, draw de dope fer Slimmy. Dat's better
dan tryin' to put one over on de swell guy. Dis'll make him squeal fer
fair!”
The Magpie produced a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket, and
laid them on the table in front of the Tocsin.
“Dere youse are,” he announced. “Help yerself, an' go to it, Mag!”
The Tocsin, evidently not quite certain of her part, wet the pencil
doubtfully on the end of her tongue.
“I ain't never drawed plans,” she said anxiously. “Mabbe”--she glanced
at Jimmie Dale--“mabbe I dunno how to do it RIGHT.”
“Aw, go ahead!” nodded Larry the Bat. “Youse can do it right, Mag. Youse
don't have to make no oil paintin'! All de Magpie wants is de doors an'
windows, eh, Slimmy?”
“Sure,” agreed the Magpie encouragingly. “Dat's all, Mag. Just mark
de rooms out on de first floor, an' de basement. Youse can explain wot
youse 're doin' as youse goes along. I'll get youse.”
The Tocsin cackled maliciously in assent; and then, while the Magpie got
up from his chair and stood peering over her shoulder, she began to draw
labouriously, her brows knitted, the pencil hooked awkwardly between
cramped-up forefinger and thumb.
Larry the Bat, slouched forward over the table, his chin in his hands,
appeared to watch the proceedings with mild interest--but his eyes, like
a hawk's, were following every line on the paper, transferring them to
his brain, photographing every detail of the plan in his mind. And as
he watched, there seemed something that was near to the acme of all that
was ironical in the Magpie standing there, his sharp, little, black eyes
drinking in greedily the Tocsin's work, in the Tocsin herself aiding and
abetting in the projected theft--OF HER OWN MONEY! How far would he let
the Magpie go? He did not know. Perhaps--who could tell!--all the way.
Between now and then there lay that package! If it were at Makoff's, at
Spider Jack's, if he could find it, get it--the Magpie as a temporary
custodian of the estate's money would at least preclude its loss by
flight if the Crime Club took alarm too quickly. Larry the Bat's eyes,
under half-closed lids, rested musingly on the Magpie's face. The Magpie
would not get very far away with it! On the other hand, if he failed at
Spider Jack's, if, after all, he was wrong, and the package had never
been there, or if they had forestalled him, turned the trick upon
him, already secured it, then--Larry the Bat's lips, working on his
cigarette, formed in a twisted smile--then, well then, that was quite
another matter! Perhaps he and the Magpie might not agree so far! A half
million dollars was perhaps not much out of eleven millions, but it was
a salvage not to be despised! Why did he say half a million! Well, why
not? If the Magpie knew of a single transaction of eighty thousand,
and there had been many transactions during the day, a half million was
little likely to prove an exaggeration--and the less likely in view
of the fact that, if those in the Crime Club were preparing for
an emergency, they would not stint themselves in the disposal of
securities.
The Magpie was keeping up a running fire of questions, as the Tocsin
toiled on with her pencil. Where did the hall lead to? How many windows
in the library? Did she remember the kind of fastenings? Did the
servants sleep in the basement, or above? And finally, twice over, as
she finished the clumsy drawing and pushed it toward him, he demanded
minute details of the position of the safe.
“Aw, dat's all right, Slimmy!” Larry the Bat cut in airily. “If youse
ferget anyt'ing when youse get in dere, youse can ask me. I got it
cinched!”
The Magpie folded the paper and stowed it carefully away in his pocket.
“Ask youse, eh!” he grunted sarcastically. “An' where do youse t'ink
youse'll be about dat time?”
“In dere wid youse, of course,” replied Larry the Bat promptly. “Dat's
wot youse said.”
“Yes, youse will--NOT!” announced the Magpie, with cold finality. “Do
youse t'ink I want to queer myself! A hot one youse'd be on an inside
job! Youse'll be OUTSIDE, wid yer peepers skinned for de bulls--youse
an' Mag here, too. See! Get dat straight. While I'm on de job youse
two plays de game. Now youse listen to me, both of youse. Don't start
nothin' unless youse has to. If it's a cinch I got to make a get-away,
youse two start a drunk fight. Get me? Youse know de lay. T'row de talk
loud--an' I'll fade. Dat's all! We'll crack de crib early--it'll be
quiet enough up dere by one o'clock.”
One o'clock! Larry the Bat shook his head. What time was it now? It was
about nine when he had first met the Tocsin, then the Sanctuary, then
the long walk as he had followed her--say a quarter of ten for that. And
he had certainly been here with her not less than an hour and a half.
It must be after eleven, then. One o'clock! And before that must come
Makoff and Spider Jack! The night that half an hour ago had seemed so
sterile, was crowding a program of events upon him now--too fast!
“Nothin' doin'!” he said thoughtfully. “Youse are in wrong dere, Slimmy.
One o'clock don't go! Say, take it from me, I've watched dat guy
too many nights fer Mag. 'Tain't often he leaves de club before one
o'clock--an' he ain't never in bed before two.”
“All right,” agreed the Magpie, after a moment's reflection. “Youse
ought to know. Make it three o'clock.” He pulled a cigar from his
pocket, lighted it, and, leaning back in his chair, stuck his feet up
on the table. “If youse don't mind, Mag, I'll stick around a while,” he
decided calmly. “Mabbe de less I'm seen to-night de better--an' I guess
dere won't be nobody lookin' fer me here.”
Larry the Bat coughed suddenly, and rose up a little heavily from his
chair. He had not counted on that! If the Magpie was settling down for
a prolonged stay, it devolved upon him, Jimmie Dale, to get away, and
at once--and without exciting the Magpie's suspicions. He coughed again,
looked nervously from the Tocsin to the Magpie--stammered--swallowed
hard--and coughed once more.
“Well, wot's bitin' youse?” inquired the Magpie ironically.
“Nothin',” said Larry the Bat--and hesitated. “Nothin', only--” He
hesitated again; and then, the words in a rush:
“Say, Slimmy, couldn't youse come across wid a piece of dat century
now?”
“Wot fer?” demanded the Magpie, a little aggressively.
Larry the Bat cleared his throat with a desperate effort.
“Youse knows,” he admitted sheepishly. “Just gimme de price of one,
Slimmy--just one.”
“Coke!” exploded the Magpie. “An' get soaked to de eyes--not by a damn
sight!”
“No! Honest to Gawd, no, Slimmy--just one!” pleaded Larry the Bat.
“Nix!” said the Magpie shortly.
Larry the Bat thrust out a hand before the Magpie's eyes that shook
tremulously.
“I got to have it!” he declared, with sudden fierceness. “I GOT to--see!
Look at me! I ain't goin' to be no good to-night if I don't. I tell
youse, I got to! I ain't goin' to t'row youse down, Slimmy--honest, I
ain't! Just one--an' it'll set me up. If I don't get none I'll be on de
rocks before mornin'! Dat's straight, Slimmy--ask Mag, she knows.”
“Aw, let him go get it!” broke in the Tocsin wearily. “Dat's de best
t'ing youse can do, Slimmy--dey're all alike when dey gets in his
class.”
“Youse cocaine sniffers gives me de pip!” snorted the Magpie, in
disgust. He dug down into his pocket, produced a bill, and flung it
across the table to Larry the Bat. “Well, dere youse are; but youse
can take it from me, Larry, dat if youse gets whiffed”--he swore
threateningly--“I'll crack every bone in yer face! Get me?”
“Slimmy,” said Larry the Bat fervently, grabbing at the bill with a
hungry hand, “youse can count on me. I'll be up dere on de job before
youse are. Three o'clock, eh? Well, so long, Slimmy”--he slouched
eagerly to the door. “So long, Mag”--he paused on the threshold for
a single, quick-flung, significant glance. “See youse on de avenoo,
Mag--I'll be up dere before youse are. So long!”
“Oh, so long!” said the Tocsin contemptuously.
And, an instant later, Jimmie Dale closed the outer door behind him.