The Greatest Crime Novels of Frank L. Packard (14 Titles in One Edition). Frank L. Packard
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! Half past 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—hello!”—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 circumstances 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 passed—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 reassure Jason—but he had neither the time, nor, for that matter, the ability to do so. The old man would be reassured 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 Dick … confession forged … organisation widespread … enormously powerful … leadership a mystery … rendezvous that English Dick 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