The Adventures of Jimmie Dale

  Produced by Donald Lainson

  THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE

  by Frank L. Packard

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE

  I. THE GRAY SEAL

  II. BY PROXY

  III. THE MOTHER LODE

  IV. THE COUNTERFEIT FIVE

  V. THE AFFAIR OF THE PUSHCART MAN

  VI. DEVIL'S WORK

  VII. THE THIEF

  VIII. THE MAN HIGHER UP

  IX. TWO CROOKS AND A KNAVE

  X. THE ALIBI

  XI. THE STOOL-PIGEON

  PART TWO: THE WOMAN IN THE CASE

  I. BELOW THE DEAD LINE

  II. THE CALL TO ARMS

  III. THE CRIME CLUB

  IV. THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER

  V. ON GUARD

  VI. THE TRAP

  VII. THE "HOUR"

  VIII. THE TOCSIN

  IX. THE TOCSIN'S STORY

  X. SILVER MAG

  XI. THE MAGPIE

  XII. JOHN JOHANSSON--FOUR-TWO-EIGHT

  XIII. THE ONLY WAY

  XIV. OUT OF THE DARKNESS

  XV. RETRIBUTION

  XVI. "DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"

  PART ONE: THE MAN IN THE CASE

  CHAPTER I

  THE GRAY SEAL

  Among New York's fashionable and ultra-exclusive clubs, the St. Jamesstood an acknowledged leader--more men, perhaps, cast an envious eye atits portals, of modest and unassuming taste, as they passed by on FifthAvenue, than they did at any other club upon the long list that the cityboasts. True, there were more expensive clubs upon whose membership rollscintillated more stars of New York's social set, but the St. James wasdistinctive. It guaranteed a man, so to speak--that is, it guaranteed aman to be innately a gentleman. It required money, it is true, to keepup one's membership, but there were many members who were not wealthy,as wealth is measured nowadays--there were many, even, who were pressedsometimes to meet their dues and their house accounts, but the accountswere invariably promptly paid. No man, once in, could ever afford, orever had the desire, to resign from the St. James Club. Its membershipwas cosmopolitan; men of every walk in life passed in and out ofits doors, professional men and business men, physicians, artists,merchants, authors, engineers, each stamped with the "hall mark" ofthe St. James, an innate gentleman. To receive a two weeks' out-of-townvisitor's card to the St. James was something to speak about, and menfrom Chicago, St. Louis, or San Francisco spoke of it with a sort ofholier-than-thou air to fellow members of their own exclusive clubs, athome again.

  Is there any doubt that Jimmie Dale was a gentleman--an INNATEgentleman? Jimmie Dale's father had been a member of the St. JamesClub, and one of the largest safe manufacturers of the United States, aprosperous, wealthy man, and at Jimmie Dale's birth he had proposed hisson's name for membership. It took some time to get into the St. James;there was a long waiting list that neither money, influence, nor pullcould alter by so much as one iota. Men proposed their sons' names formembership when they were born as religiously as they entered them uponthe city's birth register. At twenty-one Jimmie Dale was elected tomembership; and, incidentally, that same year, graduated from Harvard.It was Mr. Dale's desire that his son should enter the business andlearn it from the ground up, and Jimmie Dale, for four years thereafter,had followed his father's wishes. Then his father died. Jimmie Dale hadleanings toward more artistic pursuits than business. He was creditedwith sketching a little, writing a little; and he was credited withhaving received a very snug amount from the combine to which he sold outhis safe-manufacturing interests. He lived a bachelor life--his motherhad been dead many years--in the house that his father had left him onRiverside Drive, kept a car or two and enough servants to run hismenage smoothly, and serve a dinner exquisitely when he felt hospitablyinclined.

  Could there be any doubt that Jimmie Dale was innately a gentleman?

  It was evening, and Jimmie Dale sat at a small table in the corner ofthe St. James Club dining room. Opposite him sat Herman Carruthers,a young man of his own age, about twenty-six, a leading figure in thenewspaper world, whose rise from reporter to managing editor of themorning NEWS-ARGUS within the short space of a few years had been almostmeteoric.

  They were at coffee and cigars, and Jimmie Dale was leaning back in hischair, his dark eyes fixed interestedly on his guest.

  Carruthers, intently engaged in trimming his cigar ash on the edge ofthe Limoges china saucer of his coffee set, looked up with an abruptlaugh.

  "No; I wouldn't care to go on record as being an advocate of crime," hesaid whimsically; "that would never do. But I don't mind admitting quiteprivately that it's been a positive regret to me that he has gone."

  "Made too good 'copy' to lose, I suppose?" suggested Jimmie Dalequizzically. "Too bad, too, after working up a theatrical name like thatfor him--the Gray Seal--rather unique! Who stuck that on him--you?"

  Carruthers laughed--then, grown serious, leaned toward Jimmie Dale.

  "You don't mean to say, Jimmie, that you don't know about that, do you?"he asked incredulously. "Why, up to a year ago the papers were full ofhim."

  "I never read your beastly agony columns," said Jimmie Dale, with acheery grin.

  "Well," said Carruthers, "you must have skipped everything but the stockreports then."

  "Granted," said Jimmie Dale. "So go on, Carruthers, and tell me abouthim--I dare say I may have heard of him, since you are so distressedabout it, but my memory isn't good enough to contradict anything you mayhave to say about the estimable gentleman, so you're safe."

  Carruthers reverted to the Limoges saucer and the tip of his cigar.

  "He was the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annalsof crime," said Carruthers reminiscently, after a moment's silence."Jimmie, he was the king-pin of them all. Clever isn't the word for him,or dare-devil isn't either. I used to think sometimes his motive wasmore than half for the pure deviltry of it, to laugh at the police andpull the noses of the rest of us that were after him. I used to dreamnights about those confounded gray seals of his--that's where he gothis name; he left every job he ever did with a little gray paper affair,fashioned diamond-shaped, stuck somewhere where it would be the firstthing your eyes would light upon when you reached the scene, and--"

  "Don't go so fast," smiled Jimmie Dale. "I don't quite get theconnection. What did you have to do with this--er--Gray Seal fellow?Where do you come in?"

  "I? I had a good deal to do with him," said Carruthers grimly. "I was areporter when he first broke loose, and the ambition of my life, afterI began really to appreciate what he was, was to get him--and I nearlydid, half a dozen times, only--"

  "Only you never quite did, eh?" cut in Jimmie Dale slyly. "How near didyou get, old man? Come on, now, no bluffing; did the Gray Seal ever evenrecognise you as a factor in the hare-and-hound game?"

  "You're flicking on the raw, Jimmie," Carruthers answered, with a wrygrimace. "He knew me, all right, confound him! He favoured me withseveral sarcastic notes--I'll show 'em to you some day--explaininghow I'd fallen down and how I could have got him if I'd done somethingelse." Carruthers' fist came suddenly down on the table. "And I wouldhave got him, too, if he had lived."

  "Lived!" ejaculated Jimmie Dale. "He's dead, then?"

  "Yes," averted Carruthers; "he's dead."

  "H'm!" said Jimmie Dale facetiously. "I hope the size of the wreath yousent was an adequate tribute of your appreciation."

  "I never sent any wreath," returned Carruthers, "for the very simplereason that I didn't know where to send it, or when he died. I said hewas dead because for over a year now he hasn't lifted a finger."

  "Rotten poor evidence, even for a n
ewspaper," commented Jimmie Dale."Why not give him credit for having, say--reformed?"

  Carruthers shook his head. "You don't get it at all, Jimmie," he saidearnestly. "The Gray Seal wasn't an ordinary crook--he was a classic.He was an artist, and the art of the thing was in his blood. A man likethat could no more stop than he could stop breathing--and live. He'sdead; there's nothing to it but that--he's dead. I'd bet a year's salaryon it."

  "Another good man gone wrong, then," said Jimmie Dale capriciously. "Isuppose, though, that at least you discovered the 'woman in the case'?"

  Carruthers looked up quickly, a little startled; then laughed shortly.

  "What's the matter?" inquired Jimmie Dale.

  "Nothing," said Carruthers. "You kind of got me for a moment, that'sall. That's the way those infernal notes from the Gray Seal used toend up: 'Find the lady, old chap; and you'll get me.' He had a damnedpatronising familiarity that would make you squirm."

  "Poor old Carruthers!" grinned Jimmie Dale. "You did take it to heart,didn't you?"

  "I'd have sold my soul to get him--and so would you, if you had been inmy boots," said Carruthers, biting nervously at the end of his cigar.

  "And been sorry for it afterward," supplied Jimmie Dale.

  "Yes, by Jove, you're right!" admitted Carruthers, "I suppose I should.I actually got to love the fellow--it was the GAME, really, that Iwanted to beat."

  "Well, and how about this woman? Keep on the straight and narrow path,old man," prodded Jimmie Dale.

  "The woman?" Carruthers smiled. "Nothing doing! I don't believe therewas one--he wouldn't have been likely to egg the police and reporters onto finding her if there had been, would he? It was a blind, of course.He worked alone, absolutely alone. That's the secret of his success,according to my way of thinking. There was never so much as anindication that he had had an accomplice in anything he ever did."

  Jimmie Dale's eyes travelled around the club's homelike, perfectlyappointed room. He nodded to a fellow member here and there, then hiseyes rested musingly on his guest again.

  Carruthers was staring thoughtfully at his coffee cup.

  "He was the prince of crooks and the father of originality," announcedCarruthers abruptly, following the pause that had ensued. "Half the timethere wasn't any more getting at the motive for the curious things hedid, than there was getting at the Gray Seal himself."

  "Carruthers," said Jimmy Dale, with a quick little nod of approval,"you're positively interesting to-night. But, so far, you've been kindof scouting around the outside edges without getting into the thick ofit. Let's have some of your experiences with the Gray Seal in detail;they ought to make ripping fine yarns."

  "Not to-night, Jimmie," said Carruthers; "it would take too long." Hepulled out his watch mechanically as he spoke, glanced at it--and pushedback his chair. "Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "It's nearly half-pastnine. I'd no idea we had lingered so long over dinner. I'll have tohurry; we're a morning paper, you know, Jimmie."

  "What! Really! Is it as late as that." Jimmie Dale rose from his chairas Carruthers stood up. "Well, if you must--"

  "I must," said Carruthers, with a laugh.

  "All right, O slave." Jimmie Dale laughed back--and slipped his hand,a trick of their old college days together, through Carruthers' arm asthey left the room.

  He accompanied Carruthers downstairs to the door of the club, and sawhis guest into a taxi; then he returned inside, sauntered through thebilliard room, and from there into one of the cardrooms, where, pressedinto a game, he played several rubbers of bridge before going home.

  It was, therefore, well on toward midnight when Jimmie Dale arrived athis house on Riverside Drive, and was admitted by an elderly manservant.

  "Hello, Jason," said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "You still up!"

  "Yes, sir," replied Jason, who had been valet to Jimmie Dale's fatherbefore him. "I was going to bed, sir, at about ten o'clock, when amessenger came with a letter. Begging your pardon, sir, a young lady,and--"

  "Jason"--Jimmie Dale flung out the interruption, sudden, quick,imperative--"what did she look like?"

  "Why--why, I don't exactly know as I could describe her, sir," stammeredJason, taken aback. "Very ladylike, sir, in her dress and appearance,and what I would call, sir, a beautiful face."

  "Hair and eyes--what color?" demanded Jimmie Dale crisply. "Nose, lips,chin--what shape?"

  "Why, sir," gasped Jason, staring at his master, "I--I don't rightlyknow. I wouldn't call her fair or dark, something between. I didn't takeparticular notice, and it wasn't overlight outside the door."

  "It's too bad you weren't a younger man, Jason," commented Jimmie Dale,with a curious tinge of bitterness in his voice. "I'd have given ayear's income for your opportunity to-night, Jason."

  "Yes, sir," said Jason helplessly.

  "Well, go on," prompted Jimmie Dale. "You told her I wasn't home, andshe said she knew it, didn't she? And she left the letter that I was onno account to miss receiving when I got back, though there was no needof telephoning me to the club--when I returned would do, but it wasimperative that I should have it then--eh?"

  "Good Lord, sir!" ejaculated Jason, his jaw dropped, "that's exactly whatshe did say."

  "Jason," said Jimmie Dale grimly, "listen to me. If ever she comes hereagain, inveigle her in. If you can't inveigle her, use force; captureher, pull her in, do anything--do anything, do you hear? Only don't lether get away from you until I've come."

  Jason gazed at his master as though the other had lost his reason.

  "Use force, sir?" he repeated weakly--and shook his head. "You--youcan't mean that, sir."

  "Can't I?" inquired Jimmie Dale, with a mirthless smile. "I mean everyword of it, Jason--and if I thought there was the slightest chance ofher giving you the opportunity, I'd be more imperative still. As itis--where's the letter?"

  "On the table in your studio, sir," said Jason, mechanically.

  Jimmie Dale started toward the stairs--then turned and came back towhere Jason, still shaking his head heavily, had been gazing anxiouslyafter his master. Jimmie Dale laid his hand on the old man's shoulder.

  "Jason," he said kindly, with a swift change of mood, "you've been along time in the family--first with father, and now with me. You'd do agood deal for me, wouldn't you?"

  "I'd do anything in the world for you, Master Jim," said the old manearnestly.

  "Well, then, remember this," said Jimmie Dale slowly, looking into theother's eyes, "remember this--keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.It's my fault. I should have warned you long ago, but I never dreamedthat she would ever come here herself. There have been times when it waspractically a matter of life and death to me to know who that woman isthat you saw to-night. That's all, Jason. Now go to bed."

  "Master Jim," said the old man simply, "thank you, sir, thank you fortrusting me. I've dandled you on my knee when you were a baby, MasterJim. I don't know what it's about, and it isn't for me to ask. Ithought, sir, that maybe you were having a little fun with me. But Iknow now, and you can trust me, Master Jim, if she ever comes again."

  "Thank you, Jason," said Jimmie Dale, his hand closing with anappreciative pressure on the other's shoulder "Good-night, Jason."

  Upstairs on the first landing, Jimmie Dale opened a door, closed andlocked it behind him--and the electric switch clicked under his fingers.A glow fell softly from a cluster of shaded ceiling lights. It was alarge room, a very large room, running the entire depth of thehouse, and the effect of apparent disorder in the arrangement of itsappointments seemed to breathe a sense of charm. There were greatcozy, deep, leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge, leather-covereddavenport, and an easel or two with half-finished sketches upon them;the walls were panelled, the panels of exquisite grain and matching; inthe centre of the room stood a flat-topped rosewood desk; upon the floorwas a dark, heavy velvet rug; and, perhaps most inviting of all, therewas a great, old-fashioned fireplace at one side of the room.

  For an instant Jimmie Dale remained quietly by the d
oor, as thoughlistening. Six feet he stood, muscular in every line of his body, likea well-trained athlete with no single ounce of superfluous fat abouthim--the grace and ease of power in his poise. His strong, clean-shavenface, as the light fell upon it now, was serious--a mood that became himwell--the firm lips closed, the dark, reliant eyes a little narrowed, afrown on the broad forehead, the square jaw clamped.

  Then abruptly he walked across the room to the desk, picked up anenvelope that lay upon it, and, turning again, dropped into the nearestlounging chair.

  There had been no doubt in his mind, none to dispel. It was preciselywhat he had expected from almost the first word Jason had spoken. It wasthe same handwriting, the same texture of paper, and there was the sameold haunting, rare, indefinable fragrance about it. Jimmie Dale'shands turned the envelope now this way, now that, as he looked at it.Wonderful hands were Jimmie Dale's, with long, slim, tapering fingerswhose sensitive tips seemed now as though they were striving to decipherthe message within.

  He laughed suddenly, a little harshly, and tore open the envelope.Five closely written sheets fell into his hand. He read them slowly,critically, read them over again; and then, his eyes on the rug at hisfeet, he began to tear the paper into minute pieces between his fingers,depositing the pieces, as he tore them, upon the arm of his chair. Thefive sheets demolished, his fingers dipped into the heap of shreds onthe arm of the chair and tore them over and over again, tore them untilthey were scarcely larger than bits of confetti, tore at them absentlyand mechanically, his eyes never shifting from the rug at his feet.

  Then with a shrug of his shoulders, as though rousing himself to presentreality, a curious smile flickering on his lips, he brushed the piecesof paper into one hand, carried them to the empty fireplace, laid themdown in a little pile, and set them afire. Lighting a cigarette, hewatched them burn until the last glow had gone from the last charredscrap; then he crunched and scattered them with the brass-handled fenderbrush, and, retracing his steps across the room, flung back a portierefrom where it hung before a little alcove, and dropped on his knees infront of a round, squat, barrel-shaped safe--one of his own design andplanning in the years when he had been with his father.

  His slim, sensitive fingers played for an instant among the knobs anddials that studded the door, guided, it seemed by the sense of touchalone--and the door swung open. Within was another door, with locks andbolts as intricate and massive as the outer one. This, too, he opened;and then from the interior took out a short, thick, rolled-up leatherbundle tied together with thongs. He rose from his knees, closed thesafe, and drew the portiere across the alcove again. With the bundleunder his arm, he glanced sharply around the room, listened intently,then, unlocking the door that gave on the hall, he switched off thelights and went to his dressing room, that was on the same floor. Here,divesting himself quickly of his dinner clothes, he selected a darktweed suit with loose-fitting, sack coat from his wardrobe, and began toput it on.

  Dressed, all but his coat and vest, he turned to the leather bundle thathe had placed on a table, untied the thongs, and carefully opened itout to its full length--and again that curious, cryptic smile tinged hislips. Rolled the opposite away from that in which it had been tiedup, the leather strip made a wide belt that went on somewhat afterthe fashion of a life preserver, the thongs being used for shoulderstraps--a belt that, once on, the vest would hide completely, and,fitting close, left no telltale bulge in the outer garments. It was notan ordinary belt; it was full of stout-sewn, up-right little pocketsall the way around, and in the pockets grimly lay an array of fine,blued-steel, highly tempered instruments--a compact, powerful burglar'skit.

  The slim, sensitive fingers passed with almost a caressing touch overthe vicious little implements, and from one of the pockets extracteda thin, flat metal case. This Jimmie Dale opened, and glancedinside--between sheets of oil paper lay little rows of GRAY, ADHESIVE,DIAMOND-SHAPED SEALS.

  Jimmie Dale snapped the case shut, returned it to its recess, and fromanother took out a black silk mask. He held it up to the light forexamination.

  "Pretty good shape after a year," muttered Jimmie Dale, replacing it.

  He put on the belt, then his vest and coat. From the drawer of hisdresser he took an automatic revolver and an electric flashlight,slipped them into his pocket, and went softly downstairs. From the hatstand he chose a black slouch hat, pulled it well over his eyes--andleft the house.

  Jimmie Dale walked down a block, then hailed a bus and mounted to thetop. It was late, and he found himself the only passenger. He insertedhis dime in the conductor's little resonant-belled cash receiver, andthen settled back on the uncomfortable, bumping, cushionless seat.

  On rattled the bus; it turned across town, passed the Circle, andheaded for Fifth Avenue--but Jimmie Dale, to all appearances, was quiteoblivious of its movements.

  It was a year since she had written him. SHE! Jimmie Dale did not smile,his lips were pressed hard together. Not a very intimate or personalappellation, that--but he knew her by no other. It WAS a woman,surely--the hand-writing was feminine, the diction eminently so--and hadSHE not come herself that night to Jason! He remembered the last letter,apart from the one to-night, that he had received from her. It wasa year ago now--and the letter had been hardly more than a note. Thepolice had worked themselves into a frenzy over the Gray Seal, thepapers had grown absolutely maudlin--and she had written, in hercharacteristic way:

  Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Jimmie? Let's let them coolfor a year.

  Since then until to-night he had heard nothing from her. It was astrange compact that he had entered into--so strange that it could neverhave known, could never know a parallel--unique, dangerous, bizarre, itwas all that and more. It had begun really through his connection withhis father's business--the business of manufacturing safes that shoulddefy the cleverest criminals--when his brains, turned into that channel,had been pitted against the underworld, against the methods of athousand different crooks from Maine to California, the report of whoseevery operation had reached him in the natural course of business,and every one of which he had studied in minutest detail. It had begunthrough that--but at the bottom of it was his own restless, adventurousspirit.

  He had meant to set the police by the ears, using his gray-seal deviceboth as an added barb and that no innocent bystander of the underworld,innocent for once, might be involved--he had meant to laugh at them andpuzzle them to the verge of madness, for in the last analysis they wouldfind only an abortive attempt at crime--and he had succeeded. And thenhe had gone too far--and he had been caught--by HER. That string ofpearls, which, to study whose effect facetiously, he had so idioticallywrapped around his wrist, and which, so ironically, he had been unableto loosen in time and had been forced to carry with him in his sudden,desperate dash to escape from Marx's the big jeweler's, in Maiden Lane,whose strong room he had toyed with one night, had been the lever which,AT FIRST, she had held over him.

  The bus was on Fifth Avenue now, and speeding rapidly down the desertedthoroughfare. Jimmie Dale looked up at the lighted windows of the St.James Club as they went by, smiled whimsically, and shifted in his seat,seeking a more comfortable position.

  She had caught him--how he did not know--he had never seen her--did notknow who she was, though time and again he had devoted all his energiesfor months at a stretch to a solution of the mystery. The morningfollowing the Maiden Lane affair, indeed, before he had breakfasted,Jason had brought him the first letter from her. It had started bydetailing his every move of the night before--and it had ended with anultimatum: "The cleverness, the originality of the Gray Seal as a crooklacked but one thing," she had naively written, "and that one thing wasthat his crookedness required a leading string to guide it into channelsthat were worthy of his genius." In a word, SHE would plan the coups,and he would act at her dictation and execute them--or else how didtwenty years in Sing Sing for that little Maiden Lane affair appeal tohim? He was to answer by the next morning, a simple "yes" or "no" in
thepersonal column of the morning NEWS-ARGUS.

  A threat to a man like Jimmie Dale was like flaunting a red rag at abull, and a rage ungovernable had surged upon him. Then cold reason hadcome. He was caught--there was no question about that--she had takenpains to show him that he need make no mistake there. Innocent enough inhis own conscience, as far as actual theft went, for the pearls would indue course be restored in some way to the possession of their owner, hewould have been unable to make even his own father, who was alive then,believe in his innocence, let alone a jury of his peers. Dishonour,shame, ignominy, a long prison sentence, stared him in the face,and there was but one alternative--to link hands with this unseen,mysterious accomplice. Well, he could at least temporise, he couldalways "queer" a game in some specious manner, if he were pushed toofar. And so, in the next morning's NEWS-ARGUS, Jimmie Dale had answered"yes." And then had followed those years in which there had been NOtemporising, in which every plan was carried out to the last detail,those years of curious, unaccountable, bewildering affairs thatCarruthers had spoken of, one on top of another, that had shaken the oldheadquarters on Mulberry Street to its foundations, until the Gray Sealhad become a name to conjure with. And, yes, it was quite true, hehad entered into it all, gone the limit, with an eagerness that wasinsatiable.

  The bus had reached the lower end of Fifth Avenue, passed throughWashington Square, and stopped at the end of its run. Jimmie Daleclambered down from the top, threw a pleasant "good-night" to theconductor, and headed briskly down the street before him. A littlelater he crossed into West Broadway, and his pace slowed to a leisurelystroll.

  Here, at the upper end of the street, was a conglomerate businesssection of rather inferior class, catering doubtless to the poor,foreign element that congregated west of Broadway proper, and to thesouth of Washington Square. The street was, at first glance, deserted;it was dark and dreary, with stores and lofts on either side. Anelevated train roared by overhead, with a thunderous, deafening clamour.Jimmie Dale, on the right-hand side of the street, glanced interestedlyat the dark store windows as he went by. And then, a block ahead, on theother side, his eyes rested on an approaching form. As the other reachedthe corner and paused, and the light from the street lamp glinted onbrass buttons, Jimmie Dale's eyes narrowed a little under his slouchhat. The policeman, although nonchalantly swinging a nightstick,appeared to be watching him.

  Jimmie Dale went on half a block farther, stooped to the sidewalk totie his shoe, glanced back over his shoulder--the policeman was not insight--and slipped like a shadow into the alleyway beside which he hadstopped.

  It was another Jimmie Dale now--the professional Jimmie Dale. Quick asa cat, active, lithe, he was over a six foot fence in the rear of abuilding in a flash, and crouched a black shape, against the back doorof an unpretentious, unkempt, dirty, secondhand shop that frontedon West Broadway--the last place certainly in all New York that themanaging editor of the NEWS-ARGUS, or any one else, for that matter,would have picked out as the setting for the second debut of the GraySeal.

  From the belt around his waist, Jimmie Dale took the black silk mask,and slipped it on; and from the belt, too, came a little instrumentthat his deft fingers manipulated in the lock. A curious snipping soundfollowed. Jimmie Dale put his weight gradually against the door. Thedoor held fast.

  "Bolted," said Jimmie Dale to himself.

  The sensitive fingers travelled slowly up and down the side of the door,seeming to press and feel for the position of the bolt through an inchof plank--then from the belt came a tiny saw, thin and pointed at theend, that fitted into the little handle drawn from another receptacle inthe leather girdle beneath the unbuttoned vest.

  Hardly a sound it made as it bit into the door. Half a minutepassed--there was the faint fall of a small piece of wood--into theaperture crept the delicate, tapering fingers--came a slight rasping ofmetal--then the door swung back, the dark shadow that had been JimmieDale vanished and the door closed again.

  A round, white beam of light glowed for an instant--and disappeared. Amiscellaneous, lumbering collection of junk and odds and endsblocked the entry, leaving no more space than was sufficient for barepassageway. Jimmie Dale moved cautiously--and once more the flashlightin his hand showed the way for an instant--then darkness again.

  The cluttered accumulation of secondhand stuff in the rear gave place toa little more orderly arrangement as he advanced toward the front of thestore. Like a huge firefly, the flashlight twinkled, went out, twinkledagain, and went out. He passed a sort of crude, partitioned-offapartment that did duty for the establishment's office, a sort of littleboxed-in place it was, about in the middle of the floor. Jimmie Dale'slight played on it for a moment, but he kept on toward the front doorwithout any pause.

  Every movement was quick, sure, accurate, with not a wasted second. Ithad been barely a minute since he had vaulted the back fence. It washardly a quarter of a minute more before the cumbersome lock of thefront door was unfastened, and the door itself pulled imperceptiblyajar.

  He went swiftly back to the office now--and found it even more of ashaky, cheap affair than it had at first appeared; more like a box stallwith windows around the top than anything else, the windows doubtless topermit the occupant to overlook the store from the vantage point of thehigh stool that stood before a long, battered, wobbly desk. There wasa door to the place, too, but the door was open and the key was inthe lock. The ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight swept once around theinterior--and rested on an antique, ponderous safe.

  Under the mask Jimmie Dale's lips parted in a smile that seemed almostapologetic, as he viewed the helpless iron monstrosity that was littlemore than an insult to a trained cracksman. Then from the belt came thethin metal case and a pair of tweezers. He opened the case, and withthe tweezers lifted out one of the gray-coloured, diamond-shaped seals.Holding the seal with the tweezers, he moistened the gummed side withhis lips, then laid it on a handkerchief which he took from his pocket,and clapped the handkerchief against the front of the safe, stickingthe seal conspicuously into place. Jimmie Dale's insignia bore no fingerprints. The microscopes and magnifying glasses at headquarters had manya time regretfully assured the police of that fact.

  And now his hands and fingers seemed to work like lightning. Into thesoft iron bit a drill--bit in and through--bit in and through again.It was dark, pitch black--and silent. Not a sound, save the quick, dullrasp of the ratchet--like the distant gnawing of a mouse! Jimmie Daleworked fast--another hole went through the face of the old-fashionedsafe--and then suddenly he straightened up to listen, every facultytense, alert, and strained, his body thrown a little forward. WHAT WASTHAT!

  From the alleyway leading from the street without, through which hehimself had come, sounded the stealthy crunch of feet. Motionless in theutter darkness, Jimmie Dale listened--there was a scraping noise in therear--someone was climbing the fence that he had climbed!

  In an instant the tools in Jimmie Dale's hands disappeared into theirrespective pockets beneath his vest--and the sensitive fingers shot tothe dial on the safe.

  "Too bad," muttered Jimmie Dale plaintively to himself. "I could havemade such an artistic job of it--I swear I could have cut Carruthers'profile in the hole in less than no time--to open it like this is reallytaking the poor old thing at a disadvantage."

  He was on his knees now, one ear close to the dial, listening as thetumblers fell, while the delicate fingers spun the knob unerringly--theother ear strained toward the rear of the premises.

  Came a footstep--a ray of light--a stumble--nearer--the newcomer wasinside the place now, and must have found out that the back door hadbeen tampered with. Nearer came the steps--still nearer--and then thesafe door swung open under Jimmie Dale's hand, and Jimmie Dale, that hemight not be caught like a rat in a trap, darted from the office--but hehad delayed a little too long.

  From around the cluttered piles of junk and miscellany swept thelight--full on Jimmie Dale. Hesitation for the smallest fraction of asecond would have been fatal, b
ut hesitation was something that in allhis life Jimmie Dale had never known. Quick as a panther in its spring,he leaped full at the light and the man behind it. The rough voice, insurprised exclamation at the sudden discovery of the quarry, died in agasp.

  There was a crash as the two men met--and the other reeled back beforethe impact. Onto him Jimmie Dale sprang, and his hands flew for theother's throat. It was an officer in uniform! Jimmie Dale had felt thebrass buttons as they locked. In the darkness there was a queer smile onJimmie Dale's tight lips. It was no doubt THE officer whom he had passedon the other side of the street.

  The other was a smaller man than Jimmie Dale, but powerful for hisbuild--and he fought now with all his strength. This way and that thetwo men reeled, staggered, swayed, panting and gasping; and then--theyhad lurched back close to the office door--with a sudden swing, everymuscle brought into play for a supreme effort, Jimmie Dale hurled theother from him, sending the man sprawling back to the floor of theoffice, and in the winking of an eye had slammed shut the door andturned the key.

  There was a bull-like roar, the shrill CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP of thepatrolman's whistle, and a shattering crash as the officer flung hisbody against the partition--then the bark of a revolver shot, the tinkleof breaking glass, as the man fired through the office window--and pastJimmie Dale, speeding now for the front door, a bullet hummed viciously.

  Out on the street dashed Jimmie Dale, whipping the mask from hisface--and glanced like a hawk around him. For all the racket, theneighbourhood had not yet been aroused--no one was in sight. From justoverhead came the rattle of a downtown elevated train. In a hundred-yardsprint, Jimmie Dale raced it a half block to the station, tore up thesteps--and a moment later dropped nonchalantly into a seat and pulled anevening newspaper from his pocket.

  Jimmie Dale got off at the second station down, crossed the street,mounted the steps of the elevated again, and took the next train uptown.His movements appeared to be somewhat erratic--he alighted at thestation next above the one by which he had made his escape. Looking downthe street it was too dark to see much of anything, but a confused noiseas of a gathering crowd reached him from what was about the location ofthe secondhand store. He listened appreciatively for a moment.

  "Isn't it a perfectly lovely night?" said Jimmie Dale amiably tohimself. "And to think of that cop running away with the idea that Ididn't see him when he hid in a doorway after I passed the corner! Well,well, strange--isn't it?"

  With another glance down the street, a whimsical lift of his shoulders,he headed west into the dilapidated tenement quarter that huddled fora handful of blocks near by, just south of Washington Square. It wasa little after one o'clock in the morning now and the pedestrians werecasual. Jimmie Dale read the street signs on the corners as he wentalong, turned abruptly into an intersecting street, counted thetenements from the corner as he passed, and--for the eye of any one whomight be watching--opened the street door of one of them quite as thoughhe were accustomed and had a perfect right to do so, and went inside.

  It was murky and dark within; hot, unhealthy, with lingering smells ofgarlic and stale cooking. He groped for the stairs and started up.He climbed one flight, then another--and one more to the top. Here,treading softly, he made an examination of the landing with a view,evidently, to obtaining an idea of the location and the number of doorsthat opened off from it.

  His selection fell on the third door from the head of the stairs--therewere four all told, two apartments of two rooms each. He paused for aninstant to adjust the black silk mask, tried the door quietly, found itunlocked, opened it with a sudden, quick, brisk movement--and, steppingin side, leaned with his back against it.

  "Good-morning," said Jimmie Dale pleasantly.

  It was a squalid place, a miserable hole, in which a single flickering,yellow gas jet gave light. It was almost bare of furniture; there wasnothing but a couple of cheap chairs, a rickety table--unpawnable. Aboy, he was hardly more than that, perhaps twenty-two, from a posturein which he was huddled across the table with head buried in out-flungarms, sprang with a startled cry to his feet.

  "Good-morning," said Jimmie Dale again. "Your name's Hagan, BertHagan--isn't it? And you work for Isaac Brolsky in the secondhand shopover on West Broadway--don't you?"

  The boy's lips quivered, and the gaunt, hollow, half-starved face,white, ashen-white now, was pitiful.

  "I--I guess you got me," he faltered "I--I suppose you're aplain-clothes man, though I never knew dicks wore masks."

  "They don't generally," said Jimmie Dale coolly. "It's a fad ofmine--Bert Hagan."

  The lad, hanging to the table, turned his head away for a moment--andthere was silence.

  Presently Hagan spoke again. "I'll go," he said numbly. "I won't make anytrouble. Would--would you mind not speaking loud? I--I wouldn't like herto know."

  "Her?" said Jimmie Dale softly.

  The boy tiptoed across the room, opened a connecting door a little,peered inside, opened it a little wider--and looked over his shoulder atJimmie Dale.

  Jimmie Dale crossed to the boy, looked inside the other room--and hislip twitched queerly, as the sight sent a quick, hurt throb through hisheart. A young woman, younger than the boy, lay on a tumble-down bed, arag of clothing over her--her face with a deathlike pallor upon it, asshe lay in what appeared to be a stupor. She was ill, critically ill;it needed no trained eye to discern a fact all too apparent to the mostcasual observer. The squalor, the glaring poverty here, was even morepitifully in evidence than in the other room--only here upon a chairbeside the bed was a cluster of medicine bottles and a little heap offruit.

  Jimmie Dale drew back silently as the boy closed the door.

  Hagan walked to the table and picked up his hat.

  "I'm--I'm ready," he said brokenly. "Let's go."

  "Just a minute," said Jimmie Dale. "Tell us about it."

  "Twon't take long," said Hagan, trying to smile. "She's my wife. Thesickness took all we had. I--I kinder got behind in the rent and things.They were going to fire us out of here--to-morrow. And there wasn't anymoney for the medicine, and--and the things she had to have. Maybe youwouldn't have done it--but I did. I couldn't see her dying there for thewant of something a little money'd buy--and--and I couldn't"--he caughthis voice in a little sob--"I couldn't see her thrown out on the streetlike that."

  "And so," said Jimmie Dale, "instead of putting old Isaac's cash inthe safe this evening when you locked up, you put it in your pocketinstead--eh? Didn't you know you'd get caught?"

  "What did it matter?" said the boy. He was twirling his misshappen hatbetween his fingers. "I knew they'd know it was me in the morning whenold Isaac found it gone, because there wasn't anybody else to do it.But I paid the rent for four months ahead to-night, and I fixed it so'sshe'd have medicine and things to eat. I was going to beat it beforedaylight myself--I"--he brushed his hand hurriedly across his cheek--"Ididn't want to go--to leave her till I had to."

  "Well, say"--there was wonderment in Jimmie Dale's tones, and hisEnglish lapsed into ungrammatical, reassuring vernacular--"ain't thatqueer! Say, I'm no detective. Gee, kid, did you think I was? Say, listento this! I cracked old Isaac's safe half an hour ago--and I guess therewon't be any idea going around that you got the money and I pulled alemon. Say, I ain't superstitious, but it looks like luck meant you tohave another chance, don't it?"

  The hat dropped from Hagan's hands to the floor, and he swayed a little.

  "You--you ain't a dick!" he stammered. "Then how'd you know about me andmy name when you found the safe empty? Who told you?"

  A wry grimace spread suddenly over Jimmie Dale's face beneath the mask,and he swallowed hard. Jimmie Dale would have given a good deal to havebeen able to answer that question himself.

  "Oh, that!" said Jimmie Dale. "That's easy--I knew you worked there.Say, it's the limit, ain't it? Talk about your luck being in, why allyou've got to do is to sit tight and keep your mouth shut, and you'resafe as a church. Only say, what are you going to do about the money,n
ow you've got a four months' start and are kind of landed on your feet?

  "Do?" said the boy. "I'll pay it back, little by little. I meant to. Iain't no--" He stopped abruptly.

  "Crook," supplied Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "Spit it right out, kid; youwon't hurt my feelings none. Well, I'll tell you--you're talking the wayI like to hear you--you pay that back, slide it in without his knowingit, a bit at a time, whenever you can, and you'll never hear a yip outof me; but if you don't, why it kind of looks as though I have a rightto come down your street and get my share or know the reason why--eh?"

  "Then you never get any share," said Hagan, with a catch in his voice."I pay it back as fast as I can."

  "Sure," said Jimmie Dale. "That's right--that's what I said. Well, solong--Hagan." And Jimmie Dale had opened the door and slipped outside.

  An hour later, in his dressing room in his house on Riverside Drive,Jimmie Dale was removing his coat as the telephone, a hand instrument onthe table, rang. Jimmie Dale glanced at it--and leisurely proceededto remove his vest. Again the telephone rang. Jimmie Dale took off hiscurious, pocketed leather belt--as the telephone repeated its summons.He picked out the little drill he had used a short while before, andinspected it critically--feeling its point with his thumb, as one mightfeel a razor's blade. Again the telephone rang insistently. He reachedlanguidly for the receiver, took it off its hook, and held it to hisear.

  "Hello!" said Jimmie Dale, with a sleepy yawn. "Hello! Hello! Why thedeuce don't you yank a man out of bed at two o'clock in the morning andhave done with it, and--eh? Oh, that you, Carruthers?"

  "Yes," came Carruthers' voice excitedly. "Jimmie, listen--listen! TheGray Seal's come to life! He's just pulled a break on West Broadway!"

  "Good Lord!" gasped Jimmie Dale. "You don't say!"