The Greatest Crime Novels of Frank L. Packard (14 Titles in One Edition). Frank L. Packard
“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 hell 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 principals 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 passing his hands one over the other. Laroque was the gambler—a twisted smile was forced to his lips.
“You win,” he said hoarsely. “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 encumbering 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 hell’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—
With a mental jerk, Jimmie Dale focused his mind on his immediate surroundings. It was dark; there were no lights in any part of the house, but he needed none, not even his flashlight—he knew the house as well and as intimately as his own. He was in the rear hall now, and now he opened a door, paused cautiously as the dull yellow glow from a dying grate fire illuminated the room faintly, then stepped inside. It was the Archman library, the room where David Archman did a great deal of his work at night A desk stood at the lower end of the room; and in the corner near the portièred windows was the lawyer’s safe.
Jimmie Dale closed the door, moved toward the window, drew the portieres aside, released the window catch, silently raised the window itself—it was only a drop a few feet to the yard! And then Jimmie Dale sat down at the desk.
A clock somewhere in the house struck a single note—that would be half past one. Time passed slowly, interminably. The clock struck again—two o’clock. And then suddenly Jimmie Dale rose from his chair, and slipped into the window recess behind the portières. The front door closed, a step came along the hall, the library opened, closed again—and Clarie Archman, his face as the flickering firelight played upon it, like a face of death, came forward into the room.
For a moment the boy held motionless beside the desk, his eyes fixed in a sort of horrible fascination upon the safe—and then, slowly, he moved toward it, and dropped on his knees before it, and his fingers began to twirl the knob of the dial. His fingers shook, and he was a long time at his task—and then the handle turned, and the safe was unlocked, but Clarie Archman did not open the door. Instead, he drew back suddenly, and rose swaying to his feet, and covered his face with his hands.
“I can’t! Oh, my God, I—I can’t!” he moaned. He lowered his hands after a moment, and gazed around him unseeingly, a queer, ghastly look came into his face. “I—I guess—I guess there’s only one—one way to—to beat them,” he whispered. “One way to beat them, and—”
The package in Jimmie Dale’s hand dropped suddenly to the floor, he wrenched the portières aside, and, with a low, sharp cry, sprang forward. The boy had taken a revolver from his pocket, and was lifting it to his head. Jimmie Dale struck up the other’s hand—but in time only to deflect the shot; too late to prevent it being fired. There was a flash in mid-air, the roar of the report went racketing through the silent house, and the revolver, spinning from the other’s hands, struck against the wall across the room.
And then Jimmie Dale had the boy by the shoulders, and was shaking him violently. Clarie Archman was like one stunned, numbed, and bereft of his senses.
“It’s all right—you’re clear! Do you hear—try and understand—you’re clear!” Jimmie Dale whispered fiercely. “Here’s your letter!” He thrust it into the other’s hand. “Destroy it! Those men—Sonnino—Barca—will say nothing. You don’t owe anybody any money—that bucket-shop was in the game with the rest, and—” Cries, voices, were coming