The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale Part 25

"Besides that," continued the bank examiner, "Mr. Forrester was in town this afternoon when we got to the bank and this is the first time we have seen him, so we could not very well have done anything other than we have done in any case. I mention this because you are talking wildly, and that sort of talk, if it gets out, won't do any of us any good. You don't want to blame Mr. Marner here and myself for Mr. Forrester's death, do you?"

"No--of course, I don't!" said Dryden, in a more subdued voice. "I don't mean that at all. I guess you're right--I'm excited. I--well"--he motioned jerkily toward the form on the floor--"I'm not used to walking into a room and finding _that_."

It was Marner, the other bank examiner, who broke a moment's silence.

"We none of us are," he said, and brushed his hand across his forehead.

"A doctor can't do any good, of course, but I suppose we should call one at once, and notify the police, too. I--"

Jimmie Dale had slipped through the door and out into the hall. A moment more and he had descended the stairs and gained the street, still another and he had stepped nonchalantly into his car. The car started forward, pa.s.sed out of the lighted zone of the town's main street--and in the darkness, headed toward New York, Jimmie Dale, his nonchalance gone now, leaned forward over the wheel, and the big sixty horse-power car leaped into its stride like a thoroughbred at the touch of the spur, and tore onward at dare-devil speed through the night.

His lips twisted in a smile that held little of humour. Back there in that room they would call a doctor, and they would call the police. And the doctor would establish the fact that Forrester had died from the effects of a dose of prussic acid; and the police would establish--what?

Prussic acid was swift in its effect. If Forrester had died from that cause, how had he taken it himself, and out of what had he taken it?

What the police would see would be quite a different thing from what he, Jimmie Dale, had seen when he opened the door of that room! Instead of the evidence of suicide, there was now every evidence of _murder_. The bank examiners on entering the room, started at what they saw, obsessed with the wreckage of the bank, might still for the moment have jumped to the conclusion, natural enough under the circ.u.mstances, of suicide; but the police, after ten minutes of unemotional investigation, would father a very different theory.

Jimmie Dale's jaws clamped, as his eyes narrowed on the flying thread of gray road under the dancing headlights. Well, the die was cast now! For good or bad, his response to Forrester's telephone appeal had become the vital factor in the case. For good or bad! He laughed out sharply into the night. He would see soon enough--old Kronische, the wizened, crafty, little chemist, who burrowed like a fox in its hole deep in the heart of the Bad Lands, would answer that question. Old Kronische had a record that was known to police and underworld alike--and was trusted by neither one, and feared by both. But he was clever--clever with a devilish cleverness. G.o.d alone knew what he was up to in the long hours of day and night amongst his retorts and test tubes in his abominable smelling little hole; but every one knew that from old Kronische _anything_ of a chemical nature could be obtained if the price, not a small one, was forthcoming, and if old Kronische was satisfied with the credentials of his prospective client.

Yes--old Kronische! Old Kronische was the man, the one than; there was no possible hesitancy or question there--the question was how to reach old Kronische. Jimmie Dale shook his head in a quick, impatient gesture, as though in irritation because his brain would not instantly respond to his demand to formulate a plan. It seemed simple enough, old Kronische was perfectly accessible--but it was, nevertheless, far from simple. He could not go to old Kronische as Jimmie Dale, there was an ugly turn that had been taken in that room of Forrester's now. If, as Jimmie Dale, he had had reason to keep out of the affair before, it was imperative that he should do so now--or he might find himself in a very awkward situation, so awkward, in fact, that the consequences might lead anywhere, and "anywhere" to Jimmie Dale, to the Gray Seal, to Smarlinghue, might mean ruin, wreckage and disaster. Nor, much less, could he risk going to old Kronische as Smarlinghue. He could not trust old Kronische. How, if old Kronische chose to "talk," could Smarlinghue account for any connection with what had transpired in Forrester's room?

How long would it be, even if Smarlinghue were no more than put under surveillance, before the discovery would be made that Smarlinghue was but a role that covered--Jimmie Dale!

And then Jimmie Dale's strained, set face relaxed a little. His brain had repented of its stubbornness, it seemed, and was at work again.

There was a way, a very sure way as far as old Kronische being "talkative" was concerned, but a very dangerous way from every other point of view. Suppose he went to old Kronische--as Larry the Bat!

The car tore on through the night; towns and villages flashed by; the long, deserted stretches of road began to give way to the city's outskirts--and Jimmie Dale began to drive more cautiously. Larry the Bat! Yes, it was perfectly feasible, as far as feasibility went. The clothes that he had duplicated at such infinite trouble were still hidden there in the Sanctuary. But to be caught as Larry the Bat meant--the end. That was the one thing the underworld knew, the one thing the police knew--that Larry the Bat was, or had been, the Gray Seal. Still, he had done it once before, and it could be done again. He could reach old Kronische's without much fear of discovery after all, he would take good care to secure the few minutes necessary to make a "getaway" from the old chemist's, and _afterwards_ old Kronische could talk as much as he liked about--Larry the Bat! Yes, that was the way!

Old Kronische--and Larry the Bat. He, Jimmie Dale, would drive, say, to Marlianne's restaurant, and telephone Jason to send Benson for the car--Marlianne's, besides being a very natural stopping place, possessed the added advantage of being quite close to the Sanctuary.

His decision made, Jimmie Dale gave his undivided attention to his car, and ten minutes later, stopping in the shabby street that harboured Marlianne's, he entered the restaurant, threaded his way through the small crowded rooms--for Marlianne's, despite its spotted linen, was crowded at all hours--to a sort of hallway at the rear of the place, and entered the telephone booth.

He called his residence, and, as he waited for the connection, glanced at his watch. He smiled grimly. He could congratulate himself for the second time that night on having made a record run. It was not yet quite half-past ten, and he must have been at least a good twenty minutes in Forrester's rooms. He rattled the hook impatiently. They were a long time in getting the connection! Halfpast ten! He could be at the Sanctuary in another few minutes, ten minutes at the outside; then, say, another twenty to rehabilitate Larry the Bat, and by eleven he--

"Yes--h.e.l.lo!"--he was speaking quickly into the 'phone, as Jason's voice reached him. "Jason, I am down here at Marlianne's. Tell Benson to come for the car, and--" He stopped abruptly. Jason was talking excitedly, almost incoherently at the other end.

"Master Jim, sir! Is that you, sir, Master Jim! It--it came, sir, not ten minutes after you left to-night, and--"

"Jason," said Jimmie Dale sharply, "what's the matter with you? What are you talking about? What came?"

"Why--why, sir--I beg your pardon, sir, but I've been a bit uneasy ever since, sir. It's--it's one of those letters, Master Jim, sir."

A sudden whiteness came into Jimmie Dale's face, as he stared into the mouthpiece of the telephone. A "call to arms" from the Tocsin--_now_--to-night! What was he to do! It was not a trivial thing which that letter would contain--it never had been, and it never would be, and no matter under what circ.u.mstances it found him, he--

Jason's voice faltered over the wire:

"Are you there, sir, Master Jim?"

"Yes," said Jimmie Dale quietly. "Bring the letter with you, Jason, and come down with Benson. I will wait for you here--in the car outside Marlianne's. And hurry, Jason--take a taxi down."

"Yes, sir," said Jason, his voice trembling a little. "At once, Master Jim."

Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver, returned to the street, and seated himself in his car. How long would it take them to get here? Half an hour? Well then, for half an hour his hands were tied, and he could do nothing but wait. He glanced around him. It was curious! It was here in this very place that he had once found a letter from her in his car; it was even here that, without knowing it at the moment, he had really seen her for the first time. And now--what did it hold, this letter, this "call to arms" that he sat here waiting for, while out there in that little town a man lay dead on the floor of his room, and around whom, where there had once been the evidence of a coward's guilt, crowned with the sorriest epitaph that ever man had written, there was now the evidence of a still blacker crime--the crime of murder.

He lighted a cigarette and smoked it through. Could it be _that_--in her letter! Intuition again? Well, why not--if old Kronische should answer the question as the chances were one in ten that old Kronische might answer it! Yes--why not! It would not be strange. Intuition--because somehow the feeling that it _was_ so grew stronger with each moment that pa.s.sed--well, once before to-night he had said that intuition had never failed him yet!

The minutes dragged by interminably. He smoked another cigarette, and after that another. The clock under the hood showed five minutes past eleven; the minute hand crept around to eight, nine, ten minutes past the hour--and then a taxi swerved on little better than two wheels around the corner--and Jimmie Dale, springing from his seat, jumped to the pavement as the taxi drew up at the curb.

Jason, palpably agitated, and followed by Benson, descended from the taxi. Jimmie Dale dismissed the cab, and motioned Benson to the car.

"Well, Jason?" he said quickly.

"It's here, sir, Master Jim"--the old butler fumbled in an inner pocket, and produced an envelope--"I--"

"Thank you! That's all--Jason." Jimmie Dale's quick smile robbed his curt dismissal of any sting. "Benson, of course, will drive you home."

"Yes, sir." The old man went slowly to the car, and climbed in beside the chauffeur. "Good-night, sir!" Jason ventured wistfully. "Good-night, Master Jim!"

"Good-night, Jason--good-night, Benson!" Jimmie Dale answered--and, turning, started briskly along the street. Jason's "good-night" had been eloquent of the old man's anxiety. He would have liked to rea.s.sure Jason--but he had neither the time, nor, for that matter, the ability to do so. The old man would be rea.s.sured when he saw his Master Jim enter the house again--and not until then!

Jimmie Dale glanced about him up and down the street. The car had gone, and he was well away from the entrance to Marlianne's. The street itself was practically deserted. He nodded quickly, and stepped forward toward a street lamp that was close at hand. As well here as anywhere! There was nothing remarkable in the fact that a man should stand under a street lamp and read a letter--even if he were observed.

He tore the envelope open, and, standing there, leaned in apparent nonchalance against the post--but into the dark eyes had leaped a sudden flash. One word seemed to stand out from all the rest on the written page he held in his hand--"Forrester." He laughed a little in a low, grim way. His intuition had been right again then, and that meant--_what_? If she, the Tocsin, knew, then--his mind was working subconsciously, leaping from premise to a dimly seen, half formed conclusion, while his eyes travelled rapidly over the written lines.

"Dear Philanthropic Crook:--You will have to hurry, Jimmie.... I do not know what may happen.... Forrester ... bank cashier at"--yes, he knew all that! But this--what was this? "Money lender.... Abe Suviney... bled him ... early days in city bank ... fellow clerk's defalcation....

Forrester borrowed the money to cover it and save the other.... Suviney used it as a club for blackmail.... Forrester was trapped ... could not extricate himself without inculpating his friend ... friend died ...

Suviney put on the screws ... to say anything then was to have it look like a dishonourable method of covering a theft of his own ... would ruin his career ... original amount four thousand ... Forrester has been paying blackmail in the shape of exorbitant interest ever since ...

Suviney finally demanded six thousand to-day to be paid at once ... this has nothing to do with the bank robbery, but would look black ... added evidence...." He read on, his mind seeming to absorb the contents of the letter faster than his eyes could decipher the words. "English d.i.c.k ...

confession forged ... organisation widespread ... enormously powerful ... leadership a mystery ... rendezvous that English d.i.c.k visits is at Marlopp's ... Reddy Mull's room ... rear room ... leaves cash and securities there under loose board, right-hand corner from door ...

twenty thousand cash to-night...."

Jimmie Dale was walking on down the street, his fingers picking and tearing the sheets of paper in his hand into minute fragments. There was a sort of cold, unemotional, unnatural calm upon him. It was all here, all, the Tocsin had--no, not all! She had not known of the last act in the brutal drama, for her letter had been written prior to that. She had not known that there was--_murder_. But apart from that, to the last detail, in all its hideous, relentless craft, the whole plot was clear.

There was no need to go to old Kronische now, no need to a.s.sume the role of Larry the Bat. The question was answered--the confession _was_ a forgery--the evidence, not of suicide, but of murder, that he, Jimmie Dale, had left behind him in that room, was the evidence of fact.

He walked on--rapidly now--heading over in the direction of the Bowery.

There had been neither ink nor pen upon the desk where he had found the confession, nor had there been a fountain pen in Forrester's pocket when he had searched the other! He laughed out a little harshly. A strange oversight on some one's part if there had been foul play--so strange that he had hesitated to believe it possible! And so it had been--one chance in ten, for there was nothing to have prevented Forrester from having written the note elsewhere than in his own room. But if Forrester had written it, he must of necessity have written it very recently, certainly _after_ he had telephoned, that is, within an hour; whereas, if it had been written by some one else and brought there, if it was forged, if it was murder and not suicide, the note must have taken long and painstaking effort to prepare beforehand. That was the question that old Kronische, the chemist, was to have answered, a question that was very much in the cunning old fox's line--did the condition of the ink show that the note had been written within the hour? It was a very simple question for old Kronische, the man would have answered it instantly, for even to him, Jimmie Dale, the writing had not looked _fresh_. But there was no need of old Kronische now! And he, Jimmie Dale, understood now, too, the reason for Forrester's appeal over the telephone. In some way Forrester, without going to the bank itself, had learned that the bank examiners had suddenly put in an appearance, had either discovered or deduced that something was wrong, and had realised that should Suviney's demand for money, or Suviney's blackmailing story become known, it would appear as d.a.m.ning evidence of a past record looming up to point suspicion toward him now. That was what he had meant by saying he needed financial help.

Jimmie Dale slipped suddenly into a lane, edged along the wall of the tenement that made the corner, pushed aside a loose board in the fence, pa.s.sed into the little courtyard beyond, and, still hugging the shadows of the building, opened a narrow French window, and stepped through into a room. He was in the Sanctuary.

CHAPTER XVIII

ALIAS ENGLISH d.i.c.k

But Jimmie Dale lost no time in the Sanctuary. In the darkness he crossed the room, and from behind the movable section of the baseboard possessed himself of a pocket flashlight, and a small, but extremely serviceable, steel jimmy--and in a moment more was back in the lane, and from the lane again was heading still deeper into the heart of the East Side.

English d.i.c.k! A twisted smile crossed his lips. Well as he knew the underworld and its sordid citizenship, he might be forgiven for not knowing English d.i.c.k. The man's reputation had reached into every corner of the Bad Lands, it was true; but it had not been known that the man himself was on this side of the water. And that the secret had been kept spoke with grim and deadly significance for the power and cunning of the master brain to which the Tocsin had referred, for English d.i.c.k was known as the most famous forger in Europe, the best in his line, and as such, from afar, was worshipped as a demi-G.o.d by the underworld of New York.

Block after block of dark, ill-lighted streets Jimmie Dale traversed, until, perhaps fifteen minutes after he had left the Sanctuary, he swerved suddenly for the second time that night into a lane. He might not have known English d.i.c.k, but he knew Reddy Mull, and he knew Marloff's! Reddy Mull was a gangster, a gunman pure and simple, whose services were at the call of the highest bidder; and Marlopp's was a pool and billiard hall--to the uninitiated. Marlopp's, however, if one had ears well trained enough to hear, resounded to the click of ivory that was not the click of pool and billiard b.a.l.l.s! Upstairs, if one could get upstairs, a gambling h.e.l.l supplanted the billiard hall below.

It was an unsavoury place, the resort of crooks, some of whom lived there--amongst them, Reddy Mull.