OUT OF THE DARKNESS
A moment later, Jimmie Dale stepped forward through the vestibule.
He was quite calm now; a sort of cold, merciless precision in every
movement succeeding the riot of turbulent emotions that had possessed
him as he had entered the house.
The half hour, the maximum length of time before the Magpie would
appear, as he had estimated it when out there under the stoop with the
Tocsin, had dwindled now to perhaps twenty minutes, twenty-five at the
outside. Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-five minutes was so little that for
an instant the temptation was strong upon him to sacrifice, rather
than any of those precious minutes, the Magpie instead! And then in the
darkness, as he stole noiselessly across the hall, he shook his head. It
would be a cowardly, brutal thing to do. What chance would a man with a
record like the Magpie's stand if caught there? How easy it would be
to shift the murder of the supposed Henry LaSalle to the Magpie's
shoulders! Jimmie Dale's lips closed firmly. Self-preservation was,
perhaps, the first law, but he would save the Magpie if he could--the
Magpie should have his chance! The man might be a criminal, might
deserve punishment at the hands of the law, his liberty might be a
menace to the community--but he was not a murderer, his life forfeit for
a crime he had never committed!
If he, Jimmie Dale, could only in some way have arranged with the Tocsin
out there to keep the Magpie away altogether! But it could not be done
without arousing the Magpie's suspicions; and, as a corollary to that,
afterward, with the subsequent events, would come--the deluge! The law
of the underworld was clear, concise, and admitting of no appeal on that
point; to double cross a pal meant, sooner or later, a knife thrust, a
blackjack, or--But what difference did it make what form the execution
of the sentence took? And, since, then, that was out of the question,
since he could not keep the Magpie away without practically risking his
own life, the Magpie at least must have his chance.
Jimmie Dale was at the library door now, that, according to the plan the
Tocsin had drawn for the Magpie, and as he remembered her description
when she had told him her story earlier in the evening, was just at the
foot of the staircase. How dark it was! Though the stairs could be only
a few feet away, he could not see them. And how intense the silence was
again! Here, where he stood, the slightest stir from above must have
reached him--but there was not a sound.
His hand felt out for the doorknob, found it, turned it, and pushed the
door open. He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him.
The safe, according to the Tocsin's plan again, was in that sort of
alcove at the lower end of the library. Jimmie Dale's flashlight played
inquisitively about the room. There was the window, the only one in the
room, the window through which the Magpie proposed to enter; there
was the archway of the alcove, with its--no, there were no longer any
portieres; and there was the safe, he could see it quite plainly from
where he stood at the upper end of the room.
The flashlight went out for the space of perhaps thirty seconds--thirty
seconds of absolute silence, absolute stillness--then the round, white
ray of the light again, but glistening now on the nickel knobs and dial
of the safe--and Jimmie Dale was on his knees before it.
A low, scarcely breathed exclamation, that seemed to mingle anxiety
and hesitation, escaped him. He, who knew the make of every safe in the
country, knew this one for its true worth. Twenty-five minutes! Could he
open it in that time, let alone with any time to spare! It was not
like the one in Spider Jack's; it was the kind that the Magpie, however
clever he might be in his own way, would be forced to negotiate with
“soup,” and, with the attendant noise, double his chance of discovery
and capture--and the responsibility for what might have happened
UPSTAIRS! No; the Magpie must have his chance! And, besides, the money
in the safe apart, why should not he, Jimmie Dale, have his own chance,
as well? All this would help. The motive--robbery; the perpetrator,
there was grim mockery on his lips now as the light went out and the
sensitive fingers closed on the knob of the dial, the perpetrator--the
Gray Seal. It would afford excellent food for the violent editorial
diatribes under which the police again would writhe in frenzy!
Stillness again! Silence! Only a low, tense breathing; only, so faint
that it could not be heard a foot away, a curious scratching, as from
time to time the supersensitive fingers fell away from the dial to rub
upon the carpet--to increase even their sensitiveness by setting the
nerves to throbbing through the skin surface at the tips. And then
Jimmie Dale's head, ear pressed close against the safe to catch the
tumbler's fall, was lifted--and the flashlight played again on the dial.
“Twenty-eight and a quarter--left.”
How fast the time went--and how slowly! Still the black shape crouched
there in the darkness against the safe. At times, in strange, ghostly
flashes, the nickel dial with the ray upon it seemed to leap out and
glisten through the surrounding blackness; at times, the quick intake of
breath, as from great exertion; at times, faint, musical little clicks,
as, after abortive effort, the dial whirled, preparatory to a fresh
attempt. And then, at last--a gasp of relief:
“Ah!”
Came the sound, barely audible, as of steel sliding in well-oiled
grooves, the muffled thud of metal meeting metal as the bolts shot
back--and the heavy door swung outward.
Jimmie Dale stretched his cramped limbs, and wiped the moisture from
his face--then set to work again upon the inner door. This was an easier
matter--far easier. Five minutes, perhaps a little more, went by--and
then the inner door was open, and the flashlight's ray was flooding the
interior of the safe.
A queer little sound, half of astonishment, half of disappointment,
issued from Jimmie Dale's lips. There was money here, a great deal
of money, undoubtedly, but there was no such sum as he had, somehow,
fantastically imagined from the Magpie's evidently overcoloured story
that there would be; there was money, ten packages of banknotes neatly
piled in the bottom compartment--but there was no half million of
dollars! He picked up one of the packages hurriedly--and drew in
his breath. After all, there was a great deal--the notes were
of hundred-dollar denomination, and on the bottom were two
one-thousand-dollar bills! Calculated roughly, if each of the other
nine packages contained a like amount, the total must exceed a hundred
thousand.
And now Jimmie Dale began to work with feverish haste. From the leather
girdle inside his shirt came the thin metal insignia case--and a gray
seal was stuck firmly on the dial knob of the safe. This done, he tucked
away the packages of banknotes, some into his pockets and some inside
his shirt; and then quickly ransacked the interior of the safe,
flauntingly spilling the contents of drawers and pigeonholes out upon
the floor.
He stood up, and, leaving the safe door wide open, walked back across
the room to the window, unfastened the catch, and opened the window an
inch or two. The way was open now for the Magpie! The Magpie would have
no need to make any noise in forcing an entrance; he would be able to
see almost at a glance that he had been forestalled--by the Gray Seal;
and that, as far as he was concerned, the game was up. The Magpie had
his chance! If the Magpie did not take the hint and make his escape as
noiselessly as he had entered--it was his own fault! He, Jimmie Dale,
had given the Magpie his chance.
Jimmie Dale turned from the window, and made his way out of the library
to the foot of the stairs, leaving the library door open behind him. How
long had he been? Was it more or less than the twenty-five minutes? He
did not know--only, as yet, the Magpie had not come, and now perhaps it
did not make so much difference.
Where was he going now? His foot was on the first stair--and suddenly he
drew it back, the cold sweat bursting out on his forehead. Where was
he going now? “THE FIRST ROOM ON THE RIGHT AT THE HEAD OF THE LANDING.”
From his inner consciousness, as it were, the answer, in all the bald,
naked horror that it implied, flashed upon him. The first room on the
right--THAT man's room! God, how the darkness and the stillness began
to palpitate again, and suddenly seem to shriek out at him over and over
the one single, ghastly word--MURDER!
It had been with him, that thought, all the time he had been working
at the safe; but it had been there then only subconsciously, like some
heavy, nameless dread, subjugated for the moment by the work he had
had to do which had demanded the centred attention of every faculty he
possessed. But now the moment had come when there was only THAT before
him, only that, nothing else--only that, the man upstairs in the first
room to the right of the landing!
Why did he hesitate? Why did he stand there while the priceless moments
before daylight came were passing? The man was a murderer, a blotch on
society, and, his life already forfeited, he was living now only because
the law had not found him out--the man was a criminal, bloodstained--and
his life, because he had taken her father's life and had tried to take
the Tocsin's own life, stood between her and every hope of happiness,
robbing her even literally, in a material sense, of everything that
the world could hold for her! Why did he hesitate? It was that man's
life--or hers! It was the only way!
He put his foot upon the bottom step again--paused still another
instant--and then began stealthily to mount the stairs. The darkness!
There had never been, it seemed, such darkness before! The stillness--he
had never known silence so heavy, so full of strange, premonitory
pulsings; a silence that seemed so incongruously full of clamouring
whispers in his ears! It must be those imagined whispers that were
affecting his nerve--for now, as he gained the landing and slipped his
automatic from his pocket, his hand was shaking with a queer twitching
motion.
For an instant, fighting for his self-composure, he stood striving
to locate his surroundings through the darkness. The staircase was a
circular one, making the landing nearly at the front of the house, and
rearward from this, the Tocsin had said, a hallway ran down the centre,
with rooms on either side. The first room to the right, therefore,
should be just at his hand. He reached out, feeling cautiously--there
was nothing. He edged to the right--still nothing; edged a little
farther, a sense of bewilderment growing upon him, and finally his
fingers touched the wall. It was very strange! The hallway must be much
wider than he had understood it to be from what she had said!
He moved along now straight ahead of him, his hand on the wall, feeling
for the door--and with every step his bewilderment increased. Surely
there must be some mistake--perhaps he had misunderstood! He had come
fully twice the distance that one would expect--and yet there was
no door. Ah, what was that? His fingers closed on soft, heavy velvet
hangings. These could hardly be in front of a door, and yet--what else
could it be? He drew the hangings warily apart, and felt behind them. It
was a window; but it was shuttered in some way evidently, for he could
not see out.
Jimmie Dale stood motionless there for fully a minute. It seemed absurd,
preposterous, the conviction that was being forced home upon him--that
there were no rooms on the right-hand side of the corridor at all!
But that was not like the Tocsin, accurate always in the most minute
details. The room must be still farther along. He was tempted to use
his flashlight--but that, as long as he could feel his way, was an
unnecessary risk. A flashlight upstairs, where a sleeping-room door
might be ajar, or even wide open, where some one wakeful, THAT man
himself, perhaps, might see it, was quite another matter than a
flashlight in the closed and deserted library below!
He went on once more, still guiding himself by a light finger touch upon
the wall, passed another portiere similar to the first, and, after that,
another--and finally stopped by bringing up abruptly against the end
wall of the house. It was certainly very strange! There WERE no rooms
on the right-hand side of the corridor. And here, hanging across the end
wall, was another of those ubiquitous velvet portieres. He parted it,
and, a little to his surprise, found a window that was not shuttered,
but that, instead, was heavily barred by an ornamental grille work. He
could see out, however, and found that he was looking directly out
from the rear of the house. A lamp from the side street threw what was
undoubtedly the garage into shadowy outline, and he made out below him
a short stretch of yard between the garage and the house. He remembered
that now--she had described all that to the Magpie. There was no
driveway between the front and the rear. The house being on the corner,
the entrance to the garage was directly from the side street. Yes, she
had described all that exactly as it was, but--he dropped the portiere
and faced around, carrying his hand in a nonplused way to his eyes--but
here, upstairs, within the house, it was not as she had said it was at
all! What did it mean? She could not have blundered so egregiously as
that, unless--he caught his breath suddenly--unless she had done so
intentionally! Was that it? Had she surmised, formed a suspicion of
what was in his mind, of what he meant to do--and taken this means of
defeating it? If so--well, it was too late for that now! There was
one way--only one way! Whatever the cost, whatever it might mean for
him--there was only one way out for her.
His flashlight was in his hand now, and the round, white ray shot down
the corridor--seemed suddenly to falter unsteadily--swept in through an
open door that was almost beside him--and then, as though a nerveless
hand held it, the ray dropped and played shakily on the toe of his boot
before it went out.
A stifled cry rose to his lips. Something cold, like a hand of ice,
seemed to clutch at his heart. Those portieres, the wide, richly
carpeted corridor! It was the corridor of the night before! That room at
his side was the room where he had seen Hilton Travers, the chauffeur,
dead, lashed in a chair! He felt the sweat beads burst out anew upon his
forehead.
IT WAS THE CRIME CLUB!