The Greatest Crime Novels of Frank L. Packard (14 Titles in One Edition). Frank L. Packard
de curtain, ter go up on de act. Don’t youse make a sound!”
The doorknob turned. Jimmie Dale whipped his flashlight into his pocket—and in a flash, as a man entered, switched on the light, and slammed shut the door. A dapper individual, wearing tortoise-rimmed glasses, with black moustache and goatee, was staring into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale’s automatic.
“Hello, Frenchy!” observed Larry the Bat suavely. “Feelin’ faint?”
The man’s face had gone a chalky white. He looked wildly around him, as though seeking some avenue of escape.
“Mon Dieu!” he whispered. “Larree ze Bat! It is ze Gray Seal! It is—”
“Aw, cut out dat parlay-voo dope!” Larry the Bat broke in curtly. “Youse don’t need ter pull dat stuff wid me, Virat. Talk New York, see?”
Virat moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“What do you want here?” he asked huskily.
“Oh, nothin’ much,” said Larry the Bat airily. “I thought mabbe youse might figure dere was some of dem bonds comin’ ter me.”
“Bonds! I don’t know anything about any bonds,” said Virat, in a low voice. “I don’t know what you are talking about.’
“You don’t—eh?” inquired Larry the Bat ominously. “Well den, I’ll help ter put youse wise. But mabbe I’d better get yer gun first, eh?” As he had done to Meighan, he removed a revolver from Virat’s pocket. “T’anks!” he said. He pushed Virat with his revolver muzzle toward the table, and forced the other into a chair. He sat down opposite Virat, and smiled unpleasantly. “Now den, come across! Youse croaked de Magpie ter-night!”
“You’re dippy!” sneered Virat. “I haven’t seen the Magpie in a month.”
“An’ dat’s what youse did it wid.” Larry the Bat, as though he had not heard the other’s denial, reached into his pocket, and shoved a small, murderous, bloodstained blackjack, the leather-covered piece of lead pipe that he had found beneath the washstand, suddenly across the table under Virat’s eyes.
With a sharp cry, staring, Virat shrank back.
“Sure! Now youse’re talkin’!” approved Larry the Bat complacently. “But dat ain’t all. Say, youse have got a gall! Youse thought youse’d plant me, did youse, wid dat gray seal on de Magpie’s boot!” Jimmie Dale’s voice was deadly cold again. “Well, what about dat?”
“What do you want?” mumbled Virat.
Jimmie Dale’s smile was not inviting.
“I told youse once, didn’t I? What do youse suppose I want! If I got ter fall fer it, I want some of dem bonds—dat’s what I want!”
A look of relief spread over Virat’s face.
“All right,” he said hurriedly. “I—that’s—that’s fair. I—I’ll get them for you.” He started up from his chair, his eyes travelling instinctively toward the door.
“Youse sit down!” invited Larry the Bat coldly.
“But—but you said—I—I was going to get them,” faltered Virat.
“Sure!” said Larry the Bat. “Dat’s de idea! An’, say, I’m in a hurry. Dey ain’t over dere, Frenchy—try nearer home!”
Virat’s hands trembled as he unbuttoned his vest. He reached around under the back of his vest, drew out a flat package, and laid it on the table. He began to untie the cord.
“Wait a minute!” said Larry the Bat pleasantly. “I ain’t in so much of a hurry now dat I got me lamps on ‘em! Youse can count ‘em out after—half for youse, an’ half fer me. Tell us how youse fixed de lay.”
And then, for the first time, Virat laughed, though still a little nervously.
“Yes, that’s square,” he agreed eagerly. “I—I was afraid you were going to pinch them all. I’ll tell you. It was easy. I piped the Magpie off to a chap named Kenleigh having the bonds up there in his rooms in an apartment house. I couldn’t crack Kenleigh’s safe myself, but it was nuts for the Magpie—see? He cracked the safe. I was with him, and I copped that near-diamond pin of his, and left it there so there wouldn’t be any guessing as to who pulled off the job, and then we beat it back to his place to divide—and I beaned him. I wasn’t looking into any gun then, and handing over fifty thousand—and besides, with the Magpie out of the way, I had some alibi.” Virat laughed shortly. “That’s where you come in. Everybody knew you had it in for him. All I had to do was—well, what you said I did. If you hadn’t tumbled to it, and I’m damned if I can see how you did, there wasn’t anything to it at all. It was open and shut that the Magpie pinched the swag, and that you croaked him and beat it with the bonds.”
“Say,” said Larry the Bat admiringly, “youse’re some slick gazabo, youse are! But how did youse know dat guy Kenleigh had de goods?”
“That’s none of your business, is it?” replied Virat, a little defiantly. “You’re getting yours now.”
Larry the Bat appeared to ponder the other’s words, a curious smile on his lips.
“Well, mabbe it ain’t,” he admitted. “Let it go anyway, an’ split the swag. Count ‘em out!”
Virat picked up the package again, and began to untie it—and again Jimmie Dale’s hand slipped into his pocket. And then, quick as the winking of an eye, as Virat’s hands came together over a knot, Jimmie Dale leaned across the table, there was a click, and the steel were locked on the other’s wrists.
There was a scream of fury, an oath from Virat.
“Dat’s yer cue, Meighan,” called Larry the Bat calmly. “Come out an’ take a look at him!”
A ghastly pallor spreading over his face, staring like a demented man, as Meighan, rising from behind the lounging chair, advanced toward the table, Virat huddled back in his seat.
“Know him?” inquired Larry the Bat.
The detective bent sharply forward.
“My god!” he exclaimed. “It’s—no, it can’t—”
“Mabbe,” murmured Larry the Bat, “youse’d know him better when he ain’t dolled up.” He swept the glasses from Virat’s nose, and wrenched away the black moustache and goatee.
“Kenleigh!” gasped Meighan.
“Mabbe,” said Larry the Bat, with a twisted grin, “dere’s somethin’ he may have fergotten ter wise youse up on, but he didn’t mean ter hide nothin’ in his confession—did youse, Frenchy? An’ mabbe dere’s one or two other things in de years he’s been playin’ Kenleigh dat he’ll tell youse about, if youse ask him—nice and pleasant-like!”
Larry the Bat edged around the table, and, covering Meighan with his revolver, backed to the door.
“Well, so long, Meighan!” he said softly, from the threshold. “T’ink of me when dey pins de medal on yer breast fer dis!”
And then Jimmie Dale laid Meighan’s revolver down on the floor of the room, and locked the door on the outside with a pick-lock, and went down the stairs.
Chapter IX.
Ware the Wolf
Jimmie Dale’s fingers, in the darkness, were deftly tying around his body the leather girdle with its finely-tempered, compact kit of burglar’s tools. It was strange, this note of hers to-night—strange, even, where all the notes that she had ever written had been strange! It had been