The Greatest Crime Novels of Frank L. Packard (14 Titles in One Edition). Frank L. Packard
as good as anywhere else, I guess, an' a blamed sight better'n most. I told youse I had to make a trip first with some swag for a friend of mine.”
“Oh, all right, Goldie!” said Little Sweeney placatingly. “All right! I know you did. Forget it!”
Jimmie Dale raised himself cautiously, and, back at an angle from the window sash that precluded the possibility of being seen, looked inside. His lips tightened suddenly. The other two were no strangers, either to any one in the underworld or to the police. Goldie Kline and the Weasel! Goldie Kline was one of the cleverest box-workers in the business; the Weasel, a shrivelled little runt, was without a peer as a second-story man.
It was the Weasel now who spoke.
“Me,” he said, “I tell youse straight I wouldn't touch dem stones on a bet if any one but old Shiftel was goin' to fence 'em, 'cause dere ain't no one else could get away wid 'em. De Melville-Dane emerald necklace! Swipe me! Dere ain't a stone in de bunch dat ain't known all over de lot, an' it'll take some shovin', even by Shiftel, to cash in on 'em. De lady wid de name parted in de middle'll be——”
“Close your face!” said Little Sweeney politely. “You've seen Shiftel, haven't you, and he's settled that to your satisfaction? All you fellows have to do is get the stones to-night, and leave the rest to him.”
“Sure!” said the Weasel blithely. “I ain't kickin'! I'm only sayin' dat I wouldn't go in on de deal wid nobody else but Shiftel. Well, spill de rest of it! We're to slip him de stones as soon as we pinches 'em. Dat's understood. An' youse have come down here to tell us where he's layin' low to-night, an' where we're goin' to find him; so let's have it.”
Jimmie Dale leaned forward a little in strained attention. Shiftel! The one man he would risk, that he had risked, limb and life and liberty to reach! He had made no mistake in following Little Sweeney!
And then a blank look, that changed swiftly to one of bitter dismay, settled on Jimmie Dale's face. The roar of the engine starting up had suddenly drowned out all other sound. No—it was subsiding a little now. He caught Goldie Kline's voice:
“Aw, we can talk in de car. I gotta get dat job I was tellin' youse about done before ten o'clock. Dat's de only t'ing dere's any hurry about. De necklace job don't come off till de early mornin' when de dame's gone bye-bye. Jump in, Sweeney; we'll drop youse anywhere youse like.”
They were gone—the car, Little Sweeney, the Weasel, Goldie Kline! Jimmie Dale stood there alone in the blackness of the yard. He could not follow them. They were gone. It had seemed that success at last had been actually within his grasp. It numbed him now somehow that it had been so swiftly and unexpectedly snatched away. He had little or no chance of finding Little Sweeney again to-night; he might, with luck, pick up the trail of Goldie Kline or the Weasel somewhere in the underworld, but—He had turned away from the garage, making his way back toward the street, and now he halted abruptly, staring into the darkness.
Had he lost his wits? What was this that his subconscious mind had kept whispering over and over to him as the key-note of everything from the moment the name had been mentioned? Melville-Dane! Melville-Dane! That was in his own world, wasn't it? They were his own friends. Strange! Curious! Yes, he remembered now. Soon after he had ventured home again following his “absence” from the city, due to that night at Pedler Joe's, he had found an invitation to some affair, a reception, if he were not mistaken, at the Melville-Danes' for to-night. He had sent his regrets, it was true; but he was on too intimate a footing with them to have that make any difference.
And now Jimmie Dale moved on again, reached the fence, and gained the sidewalk on the other side. He was also well acquainted with that emerald necklace—a priceless thing that seldom left the shelter of its safe deposit vault. Mrs. Melville-Dane was evidently wearing it to-night at the reception!
He started on along the street. A word of warning, then, to the Melville-Danes—or the police? He shook his head. By the time Goldie Kline and the Weasel attempted the proposed robbery in the Melville-Dane home, they would be in possession of something far more valuable to him, Jimmie Dale, than all the emeralds in existence—they would know where Shiftel could be found to-night.
“And I think,” said Jimmie Dale softly to himself, as he quickened his pace, “I think, Smarlinghue, that we'll leave you at the Sanctuary for the rest of the night!”
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