There seemed an art in the play of Jimmie Dale's every muscle; in the movements, lithe, balanced, quick, absolutely silent.On the first landing he stopped before another door, there was the faint click of a key turning in the lock; and then this door, too, closed behind him.Sounded the faint click of the key as it turned again, and Jimmie Dale drew a long breath, stepped across the room to assure himself that the window blind was down, and lighted the gas jet.
A yellow, murky flame spurted up, pitifully weak, almost as though it were ashamed of its disreputable surroundings.Dirt, disorder, squalour, the evidence of low living testified eloquently enough to any one, the police, for instance, in times past inquisitive until they were fatuously content with the belief that they knew the occupant for what he was, that the place was quite in keeping with its tenant, a mute prototype, as it were, of Larry the Bat, the dope fiend.
For a little space, Jimmie Dale, immaculate in his evening clothes, stood in the centre of the miserable room, his dark eyes, keen, alert, critical, sweeping comprehensively over every object about him--the position of a chair, of a cracked drinking glass on the broken-legged table, of an old coat thrown with apparent carelessness on the floor at the foot of the bed, of a broken bottle that had innocently strewn some sort of white powder close to the threshold, inviting unwary foot tracks across the floor.And then, taking out the Tocsin's letter, he laid it upon the table, placed what money he had in his pockets beside it, and began rapidly to remove his clothes.The Sanctuary had not been invaded since his last visit there.
He turned back the oilcloth in the far corner of the room, took up the piece of loose flooring, which, however, strangely enough, fitted so closely as to give no sign of its existence even should it inadvertently, by some curious visitor again be trod upon; and from the aperture beneath lifted out a bundle of clothes and a small box.
Undressed now, he carefully folded the clothes he had taken off, laid them under the flooring, and began to dress again, his wardrobe supplied by the bundle he had taken out in exchange--an old pair of shoes, the laces broken; mismated socks; patched trousers, frayed at the bottoms; a soiled shirt, collarless, open at the neck.Attired to his satisfaction, he placed the box upon the table, propped up a cracked mirror, sat down in front of it, and, with a deft, artist's touch, began to apply stain to his hands, wrists, neck, throat, and face--but the hardness, the grim menace that now grew into the dominant characteristic of his features was not due to the stain alone.
"Dear Philanthropic Crook"--his eyes were on the Tocsin's letter that lay before him.He read on--for once, even to Jimmie Dale's keen, facile mind, a first reading had failed to convey the full significance of what she had written.It was too amazing, almost beyond belief--the series of crimes, rampant for the past few weeks, at which the community had stood aghast, the brutal murder of Roessle but a few hours old, lay bare before his eyes.It was all there, all of it, the details, the hellish cleverness, the personnel even of the thugs, all, everything--except the proof.
"Get him, Jimmie--the man higher up.Get him, Jimmie--before another pays forfeit with his life"--the words seemed to leap out at him from the white page in red, dancing lines--"Get him--Jimmie--the man higher up."Jimmie Dale finished the second reading of the letter, read it again for the third time, then tore it into tiny fragments.His fingers delved into the box again, and the transformation of Jimmie Dale, member of New York's most exclusive social set, into a low, vicious-featured denizen of the underworld went on--a little wax applied skilfully behind the ears, in the nostrils and under the upper lip.
It was all there--all except the proof.And the proof--he laughed aloud suddenly, unpleasantly.There seemed something sardonic in it; ay, more than that, all that was grim in irony.The proof, in Stangeist's own writing, sworn to before witnesses in the presence of a notary, the text of the document, of course, unknown to both witnesses and notary, evidence, absolute and final, that would be admitted in any court, for Stangeist was a lawyer, and would see to that, was in Stangeist's own safe, for Stangeist's own protection--Stangeist, who was himself the head and brains of this murder gang--Stangeist, who was the man higher up!
It was amazing, without parallel in the history of crime--and yet ingenious, clever, full of the craft and cunning that had built up the shyster lawyer's reputation below the dead line.
Jimmie Dale's lips were curiously thin now.So it was Stangeist! ADoctor Jekyll and Mr.Hyde with a vengeance! He knew Stangeist--not personally; not by the reputation Stangeist held, low even as that was, among his brother members of the profession; but as the man was known for what he really was among the crooks and criminals of the underworld, where, in that strange underground exchange, whispered confidences passed between those whose common enemy was the law, where Larry the Bat himself was trusted in the innermost circles.
Stangeist was a power in the Bad Lands.There were few among that unholy community that Stangeist, at one time or another, in one way or another, had not rescued from the clutches of the law, resorting to any trick or cunning, but with perjury, that he could handle like the master of it that he was, employed as the most common weapon of defence for his clients--provided he were paid well enough for it.
The man had become more than the attorney for the crime world--he had become part of it.Cunning, shrewd, crafty, conscienceless, cold-blooded--that was Stangeist.
