The Greatest Crime Novels of Frank L. Packard (14 Titles in One Edition). Frank L. Packard
than the mere salvaging of old Mrs. Kinsey's savings. He had no intention now of interrupting the two at their work! Mother Margot had wrought a very drastic change in his plans!
“I don't hear anything!” Limpy Mack's voice growled after a moment. “What's the matter with you?”
“I guess I'm gettin' de creeps,” Mother Margot's voice replied. “I t'ought I heard somethin' creak, but I guess it was de wind. Hurry up, Limpy! I wanter get out of dis. I'm gettin' de creeps, dat's wot's de matter wid me.”
Perhaps another two minutes passed, and then Jimmie Dale, far back along the hall now, heard the footsteps of the two coming from the room. At the head of the stairs they paused, and Limpy Mack spoke gruffly:
“We don't want to take the chance of being seen leaving here together. You're safe enough, because if any one saw you, they'd think you were just a friend of the old dame. You wait here, give me five minutes, then beat it yourself. And you go straight home! You'll get what's coming to you to-morrow after the Chief's made the split. We don't meet again to-night unless something breaks, and in that case you know where to find me. Understand?”
Jimmie Dale smiled quietly in the darkness. He owed Limpy Mack thanks for that, at least—it would save him from following Mother Margot.
“Sure!” mocked Mother Margot. “Cookin' a pill in yer dump under Sen Yat's! Why don't youse come across wid de price of a bunk, an' give de Chink a chance once in a while?”
Limpy Mack, without answer, descended the stairs. From the lower hall, faintly, there came the soft tap-tap of his rubber-tipped cane. Presently the shop door opened and closed gently.
Jimmie Dale moved silently forward. He could just distinguish Mother Margot's figure as a dark blur at the head of the stairs. She, too, now began to descend.
And then Jimmie Dale spoke.
“I'll keep you company downstairs, Mother Margot,” he said softly—and the flashlight in his hand, stabbing suddenly through the darkness, played its ray upon her.
She whirled with a low, terrified cry, and put her hands before her blinking eyes as though to ward off a blow.
“Who's dat? Who're youse?” she cried out.
“Go on, Mother Margot—downstairs,” Jimmie Dale prompted more brusquely.
She obeyed in a stumbling, uncertain way.
“My Gawd! My Gawd!” she mumbled wildly. “Who're youse? A dick? I ain't done nothin'! I swear to Gawd, I ain't! I swear——”
“Quite so!” interrupted Jimmie Dale coolly, as they reached the lower hall. “But perhaps you will come across just the same.”
She stared at the hand which he had extended significantly in the flashlight's glow, and from under a bedraggled hat whose brim flapped over her straggling gray hair and fell into her eyes, she blinked again; she drew the old threadbare black shawl she wore closer around her shoulders, and clutched at it where it met at her neck.
“I dunno wot youse mean,” she croaked hoarsely. “Come across wid wot?”
“With what Limpy Mack didn't get.” Jimmie Dale was biting off his words now. “There was somebody at the door, even if you didn't hear him. I can use that money myself that you put inside your blouse. And I'm waiting—also I'm in a hurry!”
“Youse ain't a dick, den!” She seemed relieved in the sense that rage and fury now supplanted fear. She snarled at him. “Why didn't youse touch Limpy? I only got a dollar or two.”
“I haven't forgotten Limpy,” Jimmie Dale answered evenly. His hand was still extended. “Quick!” he snapped suddenly.
For an instant she hesitated, then snarling again, she felt inside her blouse and brought out a few crumpled banknotes.
Jimmie Dale thrust the money into his pocket—and extended his hand again.
“Dat's all!” she announced tartly. “Wot d'youse expect? I didn't have no chance!”
Jimmie Dale smiled thinly.
“Loosen the waistband of your blouse!” he ordered sharply.
She glared at him fiercely.
“I won't,” she shrilled out. “Youse can go to blazes! I told youse dat was all. I won't!”
“Oh, yes; I think you will,” returned Jimmie Dale grimly. “When I leave you I am going to call on your friend Limpy Mack, and if I explain the double cross you put over on him, I imagine——”
She changed front instantly. Fear seemed to have her in its grip again.
“Youse won't do dat!” She was whimpering suddenly. “My Gawd, youse won't do dat!”
“It depends,” said Jimmie Dale.
“Den take it!” she mumbled in a frenzied way—and from the loosened blouse a small shower of banknotes fluttered to the floor.
Jimmie Dale stooped and gathered them up.
“That's better!” he observed coolly. “And now we'll go a little further, Mother Margot. I want quite a lot of information. First, this Limpy Mack's dump, as you called it on the stairs. Does he live there alone?”
“Oh, my Gawd!” She was wringing her hands together in terror. “Youse ain't still goin' dere, are youse? Youse ain't goin' to tell him, are youse? He'd pass de word along, an' if de Chief got wise dey'd bump me off for dis. I—dey'd clean me up before de mornin'!”
“So I imagined,” said Jimmie Dale calmly. “That's why I refrained from any interference upstairs. You see, Mother Margot, I rather think we have become indispensable to each other.”
“I dunno wot youse mean,” she faltered.
“I mean this,” said Jimmie Dale coldly, “that if you play straight with me, you are safe in so far as what you put over on your precious pals is concerned. Otherwise—” He shrugged his shoulders. “Is it quite plain?”
Mother Margot licked her lips feverishly.
“Dey'd cut me t'roat!” she whispered. “Dat's wot dey'd do. Wot do youse want? I—I ain't got no chance, have I?”
“We started with Limpy Mack, and we'll finish with him first,” said Jimmie Dale tersely; “though you've just mentioned something much more important. Well, does he live alone?”
“Sure, he lives alone,” Mother Margot answered. “He's got de basement——”
“Under Sen Yat's,” completed Jimmie Dale smoothly. “All right! Now, the really important matter. This Chief you mentioned—who is he?”
Mother Margot shook her head.
“I dunno,” she said.
“You don't know!” Jimmie Dale's voice hardened. “That won't do, Mother Margot! I wouldn't advise you to try another trick to-night.”
“I ain't!” she protested wildly. “Honest to Gawd, I ain't! I dunno!” She was wringing her hands together again. “He ain't nobody, he's”—she glanced furtively around her, the act seemingly almost subconscious—“he's—he's just a voice.”
Jimmie Dale studied her for a moment. The woman was evidently too frightened to be anything but truthful.
“Well, go on!” he prodded.
“Dat's all I knows about him,” said Mother Margot fearfully. “Just a voice over de telephone dat youse're always wise to 'cause it's a kind of a queer, thick voice.”
“Is that the way you get your orders, then?”
Mother Margot nodded assent.
“But there isn't any telephone in your room,” said Jimmie Dale sharply. “I happen to know that you've just moved in where another pal of