The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale Part 22

The boy circled his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"But why--why?" he whispered. "I--I never did anything to you."

"Sure, you didn't!" Laroque's tones were brutally amiable now. "It's your father. We've an idea that maybe he won't be so keen about going ahead with that little investigation of the private clubs after we've put a certain little proposition about his son up to him."

"No, no! No--you won't!" Clarie Archman's voice rose suddenly shrill, beyond control. "You won't! You can't! You're in it yourselves"--he pointed his finger wildly at one and then the other of the two men--"you--you!"

"Think so?" drawled Laroque. "All right, you tell 'em so--tell the jury about it, tell your father, who is such a shark on evidence, about it.

Sure, I'm in on it with you--but you don't know who I am. They'll have a hot time finding J. Barca, Esquire! I'm thinking of taking a little trip to Florida for my health, and my valet's got my grip all packed!

Savvy? And now listen to Sonnino. Sonnino's a wonder in the witness box.

Niccolo, tell the jury what you know about this unfortunate young man."

Sonnino, a wicked grin on his face, made a dramatic flourish with the hand that held the revolver.

"Well, I was asleep upstairs. I wakened. I thought I heard a noise downstairs. I listened. Then I got up, and went down the stairs quiet like a mouse. I turned on the light quick--like this"--he snapped his fingers. "Two men have broken open my safe, and they have my money, a lot of money, for I keep all my money there; I do not bank--no. They rush at me, they knock me down, they make their escape, but I recognise one of them--it is Mister the young Archman, who I have many times seen at The Sphinx Cafe--yes. Well, and then on the floor I find a letter." He grinned wickedly again. "Have you the letter that I find--Mister Barca?"

"Sure," said Gentleman Laroque--and reached into his pocket. "It was addressed to Martin Moore on Sixth Avenue, wasn't it?"

"My G.o.d!" It came in a sudden, pitiful cry from the boy, and his hand involuntarily went to his own pocket. "You--you've got that letter!"

"Do you think you're up against a piker game!" exclaimed Laroque maliciously. "Well then, forget it! You didn't have this in your pocket half an hour before it was lifted by one of the slickest poke-getters in the whole of little old New York." He was taking a letter from its envelope and opening out the sheet. "That's the kind of a crowd that's in on this, my bucko! Listen, and I'll read the letter. It looked innocent enough when you got it, in view of what I told you about knowing a man who would lend you the money. But pipe how it sounds with Sonnino's safe bored full of holes. Are you listening? 'It's all right.

Niccolo Sonnino has got his safe crammed full to-night. Meet me at Bristol Bob's at eleven. J. Barca.'"

There was silence in the room. Clarie Archman had dropped into a chair, and had buried his face in his arms that were out-flung across the table.

Then Laroque spoke again:

"Do you see where you stand--Clarie? Tell your story--and it's the _story_ that sounds like a neat 'plant' of your lawyer's to get you off.

You only get in deeper with the jury for trying to _trick_ them, see?

Here's the evidence--and it's got you cold. Sonnino recognises you. The letter is identified at the Sixth Avenue place, and _you_ are identified as the guy that's been travelling under the name of Martin Moore. J.

Barca has flown the coop and can't be found, and--well, I guess you get it, don't you?"

"What--what do you want?" The boy did not lift his head.

"We want your father to let up, and let up d.a.m.ned quick," said Laroque evenly. "But we'll give _you_ a chance to get out from under, and you can take it or leave it--it doesn't matter to us. Your father's got the papers and the affidavits in the 'Private Club' case in his safe at home to-night, and a lot of those affidavits he can never replace--we've seen to that! All right! You've got the combination of the safe. Go home and get that stuff and bring it here. If it's here by four o'clock--that gives you about three hours--you're out of it. If it isn't, then your father gets inside information that the gang is wise to the fact that his son pulled a break tonight, but that they can keep Sonnino's mouth shut if he throws up the sponge, and that if he doesn't call it off with the 'Private Club Ring,' if he's so blamed fond of prosecuting, he'll get a chance to prosecute his own son--as a thief!"

The boy did not move.

"And just one last word," added Laroque sharply. "Don't make the mistake of thinking that if you refuse to get the affidavits it puts a crimp in us. It's only because we're playing white with you, and to give you a chance, that you're getting any choice at all. We didn't intend to give you one, but we don't want to be too rough on you, so if you want to get out that way, and will agree to keep on queering your father's game if he starts it over again, all right. But you want to understand that we hold just as big a club over your father's head the other way."

"_White!_ Playing white! Oh, my G.o.d!" Clarie Archman had lurched up from the chair to his feet. His face, haggard and drawn, was the face of one d.a.m.ned.

"Good-night!" said Laroque callously. "You know the way out! You've got till four o'clock. If you're not back here then--" He shrugged his shoulders significantly. "You see, I'm not even asking you what you are going to do. We don't care. It's up to you. Either way suits us. And now--beat it!"

Jimmie Dale drew back for a second time that night into the hallway. A step, slow, faltering, unsteady, like that of a man blinded, pa.s.sed out from the inner room, and pa.s.sed on down the length of the front room--and the door opened and closed. Clarie Archman, with G.o.d alone knew what purpose in his heart, was gone.

From the thin metal case, by means of the tiny tweezers, Jimmie Dale took out a gray seal, laid the seal on his handkerchief, folded the handkerchief carefully, placed it in his pocket--and crept forward toward the inner door again. The two men were bending over the table, over the money on the table, dividing it. Jimmie Dale's lips were mercilessly thin; a fury, not the white, impetuous heat of pa.s.sion, but a fury that was cold, deadly, implacable, possessed his soul. He crept nearer--still nearer.

"The crowd that put this up says we keep it between us for our work,"

said Laroque shortly. "A third for you, the rest for me. You sure you put _all_ they gave you in the safe--Niccolo?" He screwed up his eyes suspiciously. "You sure you ain't trying to hold anything out on me? If you are, I'll make you--"

The words died short on his lips--his jaw sagged helplessly.

Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway.

"Niccolo, drop that revolver!" said Jimmie Dale softly. His automatic held a bead on the two men.

The revolver clattered to the table top. Neither of the men spoke--only their faces worked in a queer, convulsive sort of way, as they gazed in startled fascination at Jimmie Dale.

"Thank you!" said Jimmie Dale politely. He stepped briskly into the room, shoved Sonnino unceremoniously to one side, shoved his revolver muzzle none too gently into Laroque's ribs, and went through the latter's clothes. "Yes," he said, "I thought quite possibly you might have one." He pocketed Laroque's revolver, and also Sonnino's from the table. "And now that letter--thank you!" He whipped the letter from Laroque's inside coat pocket and transferred it to his own, then stepped back, and smiled--but the smile was not inviting. "I've only about five minutes to spare," murmured Jimmie Dale. "I'm in a _hurry_, Niccolo. I see some wrapping paper and string over there on top of the safe. Get it!"

The man obeyed mechanically, in a stupefied sort of way, and placed several of the sheets and a quant.i.ty of string upon the table. Laroque, silent, sullen, under the spell of Jimmie Dale's automatic, watched the proceedings without a word.

"Now," said Jimmie Dale, and an icy note began to creep into the velvet tones, "you two are going to make the first charitable contribution you ever made in your lives--say, to one of the city hospitals. Make as neat and as small a parcel of that money as you can, Niccolo."

"Not by a d.a.m.ned sight!" Laroque roared out suddenly. "Who the blazes are you! Curse you, I--" He shrank hastily back before the ominous outthrust of Jimmie Dale's automatic.

"Wrap it up, Niccolo, and tie a string around it!" snapped Jimmie Dale.

And again, but snarling, cursing now, the man obeyed.

Jimmie Dale's hand went into his pocket, and came out with his handkerchief. He carried the handkerchief to his mouth, moistened the adhesive side of the gray paper seal, and pressed the handkerchief down upon the top of the parcel.

"It would hardly do for any one to know where the money really came from--would it?" observed Jimmie Dale, and smiled uninvitingly again.

The two men were leaning, straining forward, their eyes on the diamond-shaped gray seal--and into their faces there crept a sickly fear.

"The Gray Seal!" Sonnino stumbled the words.

"Put an outside wrapper around that package!" instructed Jimmie Dale coldly. He watched Sonnino perform the task with trembling fingers; and then, placing the package under his arm, Jimmie Dale backed to the door.

There was a key in the lock on the inner side. He transferred it coolly to the outer side--and his voice rasped suddenly with the fury that found vent at last.

"You are a pair of h.e.l.l hounds," he said between his teeth; "but you are angels compared with the gang that hired you for this. Well, the game is up! David Archman will settle with _them_ when they face the investigation--and I will settle with _you_! One night, a year ago, in last January, a certain Fourth Avenue bank was looted of eighteen thousand dollars--_do you remember, Laroque?_ Ah, I see you do! The police are still looking for the man who pulled that job. What would you say, Laroque, would be the sentence handed out for that little affair to a man with, say, _your_ past record?"

Laroque's lips were twitching; his face had gone gray.

"Fourteen years would be a light sentence, wouldn't it?" resumed Jimmie Dale, an even colder menace in his voice. "And you remember Stangeist, and the Mope, and Australian Ike, don't you, Laroque--you remember they went to the death house in Sing Sing--and you remember that the Gray Seal sent them there? Yes, I see you do; I see your memory is good to-night! Listen, then! I have heard it said that Gentleman Laroque, with his gangsters behind him, would stop at nothing where Gentleman Laroque's own skin was concerned. I have heard it said that where Gentleman Laroque was known he was _feared_. Very well, Laroque, it is your turn to choose. You can choose between yourself and this 'Private Club Ring' who have purchased your services in this game to-night. I fancy you can find a means of inducing Sonnino here to keep his mouth shut; and I fancy that of the two evils--holding young Archman as a club over his father, or of your employers facing their trial and conviction--you can convince the 'Private Club Ring' that the lesser, the lesser as regards _your_ risk, say, is to face that trial and conviction. Do I make myself plain--Laroque? It is simply a question of not a word being said of what has happened to-night--or fourteen years in Sing Sing for you! I do not think you will find the task difficult when you add, to whatever arguments of your own you may see fit to employ, the fact that the Gray Seal, if your princ.i.p.als make a move, will expose them for this night's work on top of what they will already have to answer for. Well--Laroque?"

There was silence for a minute. Sonnino, cringing, the suavity, the oiliness of manner gone, a man afraid, kept his eyes on the table, and kept pa.s.sing his hands one over the other. Laroque was the gambler--a twisted smile was forced to his lips.

"You win," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "You can take it from me, I'll go up the river for fourteen years for no one--I'll take blasted good care of that! But you"--a rage, ungovernable and elemental, found voice in a sudden torrent of blasphemous invective--"you--we'll get you yet! Some day we'll get you, you cursed snitch, you--"

"Good-night!" said Jimmie Dale grimly, and, stepping swiftly back over the threshold, shut and locked the door.

He gained the street, gained his car in front of The Sphinx--and, twenty minutes later, after a break-neck run in which Benson for the second time that night defied all speed laws, Jimmie Dale alighted from his car at a street corner well uptown, dismissed Benson for the night, retraced his way half the distance back along the block, disappeared into a lane, and presently, taking a high fence with the agility of a cat in spite of, his enc.u.mbering package, dropped noiselessly down into a backyard.

It was well known ground to Jimmie Dale--as a boy he had played here in the Archman's backyard, played here with Clarie Archman. His face masked again, he moved swiftly toward the rear of the house. There was still Clarie Archman. What would the boy do? Jimmie Dale's hand, a picklock in it again, clenched fiercely. It was a h.e.l.l's choice they had given the boy--to rob his father, or go down himself, and drag his father with him, in ruin and disgrace! What would the boy do? Jimmie Dale was working silently at the back door now. It opened, and he stepped inside. He was here well ahead of the other, there was no possibility, granting even the start the boy had had, that Clarie Archman could have made the trip uptown in the same time. It was more likely that the boy might even linger a long while in misery and indecision before he came home. That was why he, Jimmie Dale, had dismissed Benson and the car for the night, and--