The Greatest Crime Novels of Frank L. Packard (14 Titles in One Edition). Frank L. Packard
quick, myriad flashes like gigantic fireflies winking in the night, he could see nothing. They were racing, racing like mad, he and this form beside him for whose safety he prayed so wildly, so passionately in his soul now. It was only a step further—just another one—and the police, coming out of the Mole’s, had not reached the gate yet. Just another step—and then a bullet, straying from the fight down there along the lane, drummed past his ear in an angry buzz—and the form beside him lurched heavily, stumbled, and pitched forward. And, with a low, broken cry, Jimmie Dale swung out a supporting arm, and pushing the shed door open with his elbow, gained the interior, and lowered his burden gently, a dead weight now, to the floor.
And then Jimmie Dale sprang to the door, and swung a heavy bolt that was there into place; then, running across the shed, he locked the other door as well. It was, perhaps, needless precaution. No one had seen them enter here, and there was little chance of the police developing any interest in the shed; while from the other side—Foo Sen’s—the fact that there was a police battle in the lane would only cause the inmates of the dive to give the shed and lane the widest possible berth!
It had taken scarcely a second to lock the doors, and now he knelt beside a form that was ominously still upon the floor, and called her name over and over again.
“Marie! Marie! Marie!” he whispered frantically.
There was no answer—no movement. The strong, steady hands shook, those marvellous fingers, usually so deft and sure, faltered now as they loosened the cloak and threw the hood back over the wig of tangled, matted hair. It was not the darkness alone that would not let him see—there was a mist and a blur before his eyes. And now he loosened the heavy wig itself to give her relief—she would have no further need of that, for it would not be as Silver Mag that she left here—if she left here at all—no, no!—his mind seemed breaking—she would leave here, she must—yes, yes, she was breathing now—she was not dead—not dead!
He wrenched his flashlight from his pocket. To find the wound and stop the flow of blood! The ray shot out—there was a cry from Jimmie Dale—and like a man distraught he reeled to his feet—and like a man distraught stared at the upturned face, ghastly white under the flashlight’s glare.
It was the Pippin.
The wig of grizzled hair that he had unconsciously been holding dropped from Jimmie Dale’s hand, and his hand went upward to his temple. Was he mad! Was this joy, relief, rage or fury that, surging upon him, was robbing him of his senses! The Pippin! How could it be the Pippin! The cloak with its hood, and the long, gray matted wig were very like Silver Mag’s—very like Silver Mag’s! The Pippin! The Pippin!—one-time actor who had murdered old Melinoff, the old-clothes dealer! No—he was not mad! Dimly, his mind groping in the darkness, he began to see.
The Pippin’s eyes opened.
“Who’s there?” he demanded weakly.
Jimmie Dale, without a word, leaned forward, and threw the ray of light upon his own face.
A queer smile flickered across the Pippin’s lips; his voice, weak as it was, was debonair and careless.
“Well, we nearly got you, Larry—at that! You fell for it, all right. Only—only some one”—his voice weakened still farther—“must have spilled the beans—to the—police.”
Jimmie Dale made no answer. His lips were thinned and tight together. It was plain enough now. It had been a plant to get him—to get Larry the Bat, who was known to the underworld to be the Gray Seal—to get the Gray Seal through an appeal to the Gray Seal’s loyalty toward his pal, Silver Mag! A plant, devilish enough in its ingenuity—Silver Mag impersonated—the “news” of her capture spread broadcast through the underworld on the chance that it would reach the ears of Larry the Bat, and tempt Larry the Bat into the open—as it had done! He knew now why the Pippin had gone to Melinoff’s—old Melinoff’s stock, more than any other dealer’s, would be the most likely to supply the Pippin with the garments that, if not too closely inspected, would pass muster for Silver Mag’s. He knew now why the underworld, believing what it had been told, had been warned to keep away from the Mole’s—he knew now that it was because he was to have no inkling that he was walking into a baited trap.
He had torn the Pippin’s clothing loose, found the bullet hole in the left side, perilously near the heart, and was striving now to staunch the other’s wound. The man had little call for mercy, but at least—
The Pippin pushed his hand away.
“It’s no use,” said the Pippin. “I’m—I’m done for. But—but I don’t understand. When you came to the window, I went to the door and tipped them off that you were there, and the gang that was waiting started around into the lane so that you wouldn’t get any chance to make a break that way. I—I don’t understand. Where—where did the police come from?”
“I sent them—from Melinoff’s,” said Jimmie Dale grimly.
The Pippin came up on his elbow.
“You!” he gasped. “You—you know what happened there—you were wise to everything all the time?”
“No,” said Jimmie Dale. “I only knew you had murdered Melinoff. You left one of your cuff links there.”
“Did I?” said the Pippin. He sank back on the floor again. “I didn’t know it. It—it must have fallen out of my shirt when I undressed. I came away wearing women’s things, and carrying my own clothes in a bundle.” He laughed shortly, huskily. “That’s what was the matter with Melinoff. It was the old fool’s own fault! I didn’t want to hurt him! He didn’t understand at first when I was pawing all his stuff over, but when he saw me try the things on, and tumbled that I was—was going to play Silver Mag, he said he wouldn’t stand for it. Ha, ha! Silver Mag!” The Pippin’s voice had taken on a queer mumbling note, and his mind seemed to be functioning suddenly in a half-wandering way. “Some role, Silver Mag! I was the star to-night! You remember Silver Mag—how she used to go around in the old days and hand out the silver coins, never a bill, just coins, to the families whose men were doing spaces up the river in Sing Sing? She kept old Melinoff’s wife going while he was in limbo—that’s what he said. I didn’t want to hurt the old fool, but he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. Ha, ha! Silver Mag! It was some play on the boards to-night! Clever brain, the Big Fellow’s got! It wasn’t any good if Silver Mag and Larry the Bat were together, but Silver Mag was seen buying a ticket and getting on a train for Chicago last night—and last night, later than that, the Gray Seal sent the Forrester stuff to the police—so they couldn’t have been together this evening unless he went afterwards to Chicago, too—and he didn’t do that because all the trains were watched. It was the biggest chance that ever came across of getting the Gray Seal in a trap. Some stage setting—some play—clever brain that—”
The voice trailed off. Outside there was quiet now, save for the crunch of an occasional footstep. The police who, as Jimmie Dale understood quite clearly now, had run into the Mole’s gang as the two converged at the rear of the Mole’s house, had evidently now got the better of the gangsters. And that convergence, too, explained why the Pippin had accompanied him so meekly toward the shed—the Pippin’s one aim and object at that moment had been to avoid the police! He leaned suddenly forward over the man—the Pippin was going fast now. There was one thing yet, a thing that was vital, paramount, above all others.
“Pippin,” he said quietly, “you’re going out. Who put up this plant? It wasn’t the Mole, he’s not big enough, he’s only a tool like yourself. Who was it?”
“No—not the Mole,” murmured the Pippin. “He—he isn’t big enough. Clever brain—clever brain—clever—”
“Who was it? Answer me, Pippin!”
“Yes,” said the Pippin, and the queer smile came again, “I—I’ll tell you. It—it was some one”—Jimmie Dale could scarcely hear the words—“some one—who will—get you yet!”
The smile was still on the Pippin’s lips—but the man