The Adventures of Jimmie Dale by Frank L. Packard - HTML preview

 II.16. Death To The Gray Seal!

On Jimmie Dale ran. Across on Fourth Avenue he swung on a car that took him to Astor Place. Then striking east once more, making a detour to avoid the Bowery, he ran on at top speed again. To reach the Sanctuary, not before the Magpie should have spread the alarm, that was impossible, but to reach it before the underworld should have had time to recover its breath, as it were, before the underworld should have had time to act--that was his only chance! The Magpie had, at the outside, a start of fifteen minutes; but he, Jimmie Dale, had probably retrieved five minutes of that in the time he had made in getting downtown. That left the Magpie ten to the good. How long would it take the Magpie to bring the underworld swarming like hornets around the Sanctuary?

On Larry the Bat ran. At the Sanctuary were the clothes, the belongings of Jimmie Dale. Could he save Jimmie Dale! If he could get there, change, and get out again, the way was clear for him--as clear as for the Tocsin now. In a few hours the police would have every member of the Crime Club in the trap; there would be no watch any more around his house on Riverside Drive; and he would be free to return there and resume his normal life as Jimmie Dale again if he could make the Sanctuary in time! But let the Magpie get there first, let the underworld tear the place to pieces in its fury as it would do, let them discover that hiding place under the flooring, for instance, and the Gray Seal would not be merely Larry the Bat, but Jimmie Dale as well, and--a cry escaped him even as he ran--it meant ruin, the disgrace of an honoured name, death, crimes without number at his door. Crimes! The Gray Seal had never committed a crime! But the crimes attributed to the Gray Seal he could not disprove, not one of them! He had meant them to appear as crimes-- and he had succeeded so well that the Gray Seal's name, execrated, was a synonym for the most callous, dangerous, and unscrupulous criminal of the age!

He was gasping for breath as finally, making for the side door, he darted into the alleyway that flanked the Sanctuary. What story would the Magpie tell? Not the  truth, of course--that would let the Magpie in for what had happened that night, for the Magpie must be well aware that he had shot at least one of the two men in that room. But the truth wasn't necessary; it was foreign, and had no bearing on the one outstanding fact--the Gray Seal was Larry the Bat. At the present moment the Magpie had a double incentive for "getting" the Gray Seal--the Gray Seal was the only one who could prove murder against him that night in the LaSalle mansion. And afterwards, when the police version of the affair was made public, the Magpie, to save himself, would be careful enough to do or say nothing to contradict "Henry LaSalle's" confession!

Larry the Bat slipped in through the door, halted there, listened; and then began to mount the rickety stairs, with his silent tread. At the top he paused again. Nothing--no sound! They were not here yet--so far he was in time! He stepped to the Sanctuary door, unlocked it, passed into the squalid, miserable room that had harboured him for so long as Larry the Bat, locked the door behind him, crossed quickly to the window to make sure that the shutters were closed--and then, for the first time, as the gray light streaked in through the interstices, he was conscious that it was already dawn. So much the more need for haste then!

He whipped out his revolver and laid it at his hand on the dilapidated table; then the flooring in the corner was up in an instant, and he began to strip off the rags of Larry the Bat. Boots, mismated socks, the torn, patched trousers, the greasy flannel shirt, the threadbare coat, the nondescript slouch hat were thrown in a pile on the floor; and with them, from their hiding- place, the grease paints and heterogeneous collection of make-up accessories. This done, he began to slip on the clothes of Jimmie Dale; and, when half dressed, turned to the table again to remove the characteristic grime, stain, and paint of Larry the Bat from face, hands, wrists, throat, and neck. This was a longer, more arduous task. He reached for the cracked pitcher to pour more water into the basin--and, snatching up his revolver instead, whirled to face the door.

Some one was outside! He had caught the creak of a footstep upon the stairs. In a flash he was across the room and crouched by the door. Yes, the step was  nearer now--at the head of the stairs--on the landing. His revolver lifted, holding a steady bead on the door panel. And then there came a low voice: "Jimmie! Jimmie! Are you there? Quick, Jimmie! Are you there?"

The Tocsin! What was she doing here! Why had he not warned her up there on the avenue, fool that he was, that of all places she was to keep away from here!

She slipped into the room as he unlocked the door.

"They're coming, Jimmie!" she panted breathlessly. "There's not an instant to lose! Listen! When the Magpie ran from the house, I ran with him--but it"--she tried to smile--"it wasn't to obey you, to run away--I had made up my mind I wouldn't do that--it was to find out from him what had happened. He told me you were the Gray Seal. He did not suspect me. He thinks you were no more than just Larry the Bat to me, as you were to everybody else. He went straight to Chicago Ike's gambling rooms and found the Skeeter's gang there--you know them, Red Mose, the Midget, Harve Thoms, and the Skeeter--you remember your fight with them over old Luddy's diamonds! Well, they have not forgotten, either! They are on their way here, now! The news that you are the Gray Seal is travelling like lightning all through the underworld--there will be a mob here on the Skeeter's heels. So, Jimmie--quick! Run!"

Run! Half Larry the Bat, half Jimmie Dale--and run! In another five minutes, perhaps--yes. But there probably would not be five minutes--and she--if she were found here!

"Yes," he said quietly. "I'll get away in a moment. You go at once. I'll"--he was smiling at her reassuringly--"I'll meet you at--"

She looked at him then for an instant--interrupting him quickly, as she shook her head.

"I didn't notice, Jimmie. You cannot go like that--can you? It would be even worse than being caught as Larry the Bat. Hurry then--I am not going without you."

 "No!" he said. "Go now! Go at once, Marie--while you can. You have risked your life as it is to come here and tell me this. For God's sake, go now!"

The great, brown eyes were smiling bravely through a sudden mist. She shook her head again.

"Not without you, Jimmie."

It brought a fierce, wild throb of joy upon him--and then a cold, sickening fear. "Listen!" he cried out desperately. "You must go now! You cannot take any chances now, Marie. Everything is right for you. That man who posed as your uncle is dead--the leader of the Crime Club is dead. Don't you understand what that means! You have only to be Marie LaSalle again and claim your own. I cannot tell you all now-- there's no time. That house was the Crime Club itself. The police will get them all. Don't you see! Don't you see! Everything is clear for you now--and now go! Go--you must go!"

She was staring at him, a strange wonder in her face.

"Clear! All clear--for me! I--I can go back to--to my own life again!" It was as though she were whispering some amazing thing of unbelievable joy to herself.

"YES!" he cried out again. "Yes! But go--go, Marie!"

But now, for answer, suddenly she reached out and took the key from the door and put it in the pocket of her dress.

"We will go together, Jimmie--or not at all," she said simply. "We are wasting precious moments. Hurry and dress!"

He hesitated miserably. What could he do--if she WOULD not go! And it was true--the moments were flying. Better, rather than futile argument, to use them as she said. There was still a chance! Why not! Five minutes! He could do better than that! He MUST do better than that!

 Without a word, he ran back across the room. In frantic haste, from face, hands, wrists, and neck came the stain. There was still time. She was standing there by the door, listening. She, the Tocsin, she whom he loved, she who, all through the years that