The Greatest Crime Novels of Frank L. Packard (14 Titles in One Edition). Frank L. Packard
broken and bent over the side of his face, advanced belligerently.
Australian Ike, who had entered the room with him, pulled him back.
"Ferget it!" he flung out. "Clarie's dealin' the deck. Ferget it!"
The Mope glared from one to the other; then shook his fist at Stangeist on the floor.
"Youse two make me sick!" he sneered. "Wot's the use of waitin' all night? We was to bump him off, anyway, wasn't we? Dat's wot youse said yerselves, 'cause wot was ter stop him writin' out another paper if we didn't fix him fer keeps?"
"That's all right," rejoined Clarie Deane; "but that's the second act, you bonehead, see! We ain't got the paper yet, have we? Say, take a look at that safe! It's easier ter scare him inter openin' it than ter crack it, ain't it?"
Jimmie Dale, from his crouched position, began to rise to his feet slowly, making but the slightest movement at a time, cautious of the least sound. His lips were like a thin line, his fingers tightly pressed over the automatic in his hand. There was not room for him between the portieres and the window; and, do what he could, the hangings bulged a little. Let one of the three notice that, or inadvertently brush against the portieres, and his life would not be worth an instant's purchase.
They were lifting Stangeist up now, propping him up in the chair. Stangeist moaned, opened his eyes, stared in a dazed way at the three faces that leered into his, then dawning intelligence came, and his face, that had been white before, took on a pasty, grayish pallor.
"You—the three of you!" he mumbled. "What's this mean?"
And then Clarie Deane laughed in a low, brutal way.
"Wot d'ye think it means? We want that paper, an' we want it damn quick—see! D'ye think we was goin' ter stand fer havin' a trip ter Sing Sing an' the wire chair danglin' over our heads!"
Stangeist closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something of the old-time craftiness was in his face.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he inquired, almost sharply. "You know what will happen to you, if anything happens to me."
"Don't youse kid yerself!" retorted Clarie Deane. "D'ye think we're fools? This ain't like it was yesterday—see! We GETS the paper this time—so there won't nothin' happen to us. You come across with it blasted quick now, or The Mope'll give you another on the bean that'll put you to sleep fer keeps!"
The blood was running down Stangeist's face. He wiped it away from his eyes.
"It's not here," he said innocently. "It's in my box in the safety-deposit vaults."
"Aw," blurted out Australian Ike, pushing suddenly forward, "youse can't work dat crawl on—"
"Cut it out, Ike!" snapped Clarie Dane. "I'm runnin' this! So it's in the vaults, eh?" He shoved his face toward Stangeist's.
"Yes," said Stangeist easily. "You see—I was looking for something like this."
Clarie Deane's fist clenched.
"You lie!" he choked. "The Mope, here, was the last of us you showed the paper to yesterday afternoon, an' the vaults was closed then—an' you ain't been there to-day, 'cause you've been watched. That's why we fixed it fer to-night after the divvy that you've just tried ter do us on again, 'cause we knew you had it here."
"I tell you, it's not here," said Stangeist evenly.
"You lie!" said Clarie Deane again. "It's in that safe. The Mope heard you tell the girl in yer office that if anything happened to you she was ter wise up the district attorney that there was a paper in your safe at home fer him that was important. Now then, you beat it over ter that safe, an' open it up—we'll give you a minute ter do it in."
"The paper's not there, I tell you," said Stangeist once more.
"That's all right," submitted Clarle Deane grimly. "There's a quarter of that minute gone."
"I won't!" Stangeist flashed out violently.
"That's all right," repeated Clarie Deane. "There's half of that minute gone."
Jimmie Dale's eyes, in a fascinated sort of way, were on Stangeist. The man's face was twitching now, moisture began to ooze from his forehead, as the callous brutality of the scowling faces seemed to get him—and then he lurched suddenly forward in his chair.
"My God!" he cried out, a ring of terror in his voice "What do you mean to do? You'll pay for it! They'll get you! The servants will be back in a minute."
"Two skirts!" jeered Clarie Deane. "We ain't goin' ter run away from them. If they comes before we goes, we'll fix 'em. That minute's up!"
Stangeist licked his lips with his tongue.
"Suppose—suppose I refuse?" he said hoarsely.
"You can suit yerself," said Clarie Deane, with a vicious grin. "We know the paper's there, an' we gets it before we leaves here—see? You can take yer choice. Either you goes over ter the safe an' opens it yerself, or else"—he paused and produced a small bottle from his pocket—"this is nitro-glycerin', an' we opens it fer you with this. Only if we does the job we does it proper. We ties you up and sets you against the door of the safe before we touches off the 'soup,' an' mabbe if yer a good guesser you can guess the rest."
There was a short, raucous guffaw from The Mope.
Stangeist turned a drawn face toward the man, stared at him, and stared in a miserable way at the other two in turn. He licked his lips again—none was in a better position than himself to know that there would be neither scruples nor hesitancy to interfere with carrying out the threat.
"Suppose," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "suppose I open the safe—what then—afterward?"
"We ain't got the safe open yet," countered Clarie Deane uncompromisingly. "An' we ain't got no more time ter fool over it, either. You get a move on before I counts five, or The Mope an' Ike ties you up! One—"
Stangeist staggered to his feet, wiped the blood out of his eyes for the second time, and, with lips working, went unsteadily across the room to the safe.
He knelt before it, and began to manipulate the dial; while the others crowded around behind him. The Mope was fingering his revolver again club fashion. Australian Ike's elbow just grazed the portieres, and Jimmie Dale flattened himself against the window, holding his breath—a smile on his lips that was mirthless, deadly, cold. The end was not far off now; and then—WHAT?
Stangeist had the outer door of the safe open now—and now the inner door swung back. He reached in his hand to the pigeonhole, drew out the envelope—and with a sudden, wild cry, reeled to his feet.
"My God!" he screamed out. "What's—what's this!"
Clarie Deane snatched the envelope from him.
"THE GRAY SEAL!"—the words came with a jerk from his lips. He ripped the envelope open frantically—and like a man stunned gazed at the four blank sheets, while the colour left his face. "IT'S GONE!" he cried out hoarsely.
"Gone!" There was a burst of oaths from Australian Ike. "Gone! Den we're nipped—de lot of us!"
The Mope's face was like a maniac's as he whirled on Stangeist.
"Sure!" he croaked. "But youse gets yers first, youse—"
With a cry, Stangeist, to elude the blow, ducked blindly backward—into the portieres—and with a rip and tear the hangings were wrenched apart.
It came instantaneously—a yell of mingled surprise and fury from the three—the crash and spit of Jimmie Dale's revolver as he fired one shot at the floor to stop their rush—then he flung himself at the window, through it, and dropped sprawling to the ground.
A stream of flame cut the darkness above him, a bullet whistled by his head—another—and another. He was on his feet, quick as a cat, and running close alongside of the wall of the house. He heard a thud behind him, still another, and yet a third—they were dropping through the