The Greatest Crime Novels of Frank L. Packard (14 Titles in One Edition). Frank L. Packard

laughed shortly, dove his fingers into a greasy vest pocket, and produced a jeweller’s magnifying glass, which he screwed into his eye.

      “One of these has got a flaw, and it’s cloudy,” he mumbled.

      “Never mind about the flaw! Flash your wad!” invited Thorold, with a thin smile.

      Jimmie Dale’s hand slipped under his vest to a pocket in the leather girdle, and from the thin metal case, with the aid of the tiny tweezers, lifted out a gray seal, and laid it lightly on the inside edge of his left-hand sleeve. He replaced the metal case with his right hand, and with his right hand drew his automatic from his pocket. He crept forward again, inch by inch toward the door of the inner room.

      Old Jake laid the pendant on the table, and from some mysterious recess in his clothing pulled out a huge roll of banknotes.

      “I’ll make it three and a half until I see what I can get for it. That’s all I’ve got here, anyway.” He began to count the money, laying it bill by bill on the table. “If I get more than seven, I’ll split the difference even. That’s fair. That’s the way it’s been ever since we started this. I don’t know exactly what I can get for this, and—”

      And then Jimmie Dale was in the room, his automatic covering the two men.

      “Don’t move please, gentlemen!” he said quietly, as he stepped to the table. His eyes behind the mask travelled from the diamond pendant to the pile of banknotes, and from the banknotes to the two men, whose faces had gone suddenly white, and who now sat rigidly in their chairs, as though turned to stone. “I appear to be in luck to-night!” His lips, just showing beneath the mask, parted in a hard smile. “I was passing by, and—” His left hand reached out, swept up the money and the diamond pendant—and in their place, fluttering from his sleeve, a gray seal fell upon the table.

      There was a sharp, quick cry from Thorold—and the muzzle of Jimmie Dale’s automatic swung like a flash to a level with the man’s eyes. Old Jake had crumpled up now in his chair, and was glaring wildly at the little diamond-shaped piece of paper; he licked his lips with his tongue, there was fear in his eyes.

      “The Gray Seal! The Gray Seal!” he muttered hoarsely.

      “I appear to be in luck to-night!” said Jimmie Dale again. “And”—he put the money and the diamond pendant coolly in his pocket—“it would be too bad if I didn’t play it up, wouldn’t it? It doesn’t often come as easy as this. Amazing carelessness to leave that outside door unlocked! But, as I was saying, with such a lavish display of opulence on the table, one is almost led to hope that there might be more where that came from. Now—”

      “I haven’t got any more—not another cent! Honest, I haven’t!” old Jake cried hysterically. “I swear to God, I haven’t, and—”

      “You hold your tongue!” There was a sudden snarl in Jimmie Dale’s low tones. The man’s voice was rising dangerously loud. “I’ll attend to you in a moment!” He swung on Thorold again; and, with his pistol pressed close against the man, felt deftly and swiftly over the other in search of weapons. He laughed tersely, finding none. “Empty your pockets out on the table!” he ordered curtly.

      The man hesitated.

      Jimmie Dale smiled—unpleasantly.

      Thorold swept a bead of sweat from his forehead. His lips were working nervously. All suavity and polish were gone now; there were only viciousness and fear, each struggling with the other for the mastery in the man’s smug face.

      “Damn you, you blasted snitch!” he burst out furiously. “We’ll get you down here some day, and—”

      “Some day, perhaps,” said Jimmie Dale softly. “But to-night—did I explain that I was in a hurry—Thorold! Every pocket inside out, please!”

      Thorold’s hand went reluctantly to his pockets. He began with the inside pocket of his coat, laying a pile of letters and papers on the table.

      “Anything there you want?” he sneered.

      “Go on!” prompted Jimmie Dale.

      From vest pockets came a varied assortment of articles—watch, cigars, a cigar-cutter, a silver-mounted pencil, and a fountain pen. The man’s hands travelled to his outside coat pockets.

      “The inside pocket of the vest, Thorold,” suggested Jimmie Dale coldly.

      With a malicious snort, Thorold unbuttoned his vest, and turned the pocket out. There was nothing in it.

      Jimmie Dale nodded complacently.

      “My mistake, Thorold,” he murmured apologetically. “Go on!”

      The man continued to denude himself of his effects, but with increasing savagery and reluctance. There was silence in the room—and then suddenly, so faint as to be almost inaudible, there was a soft pat upon the floor. Jimmie Dale did not turn his head.

      “I think you dropped something, Jake,” he observed pleasantly. “Now take your foot off it, and put it on the table!”

      A miserable smile twisting his lips, old Jake stooped, picked up a roll of bills, and, mumbling and crooning to himself, laid it on the table. Jimmie Dale immediately transferred it to his pocket.

      “Yes,” he said, “I certainly seem to be in luck tonight! That all you got, Thorold?” He reached forward, and possessed himself of a well-filled wallet that Thorold had added to the heterogeneous collection in front of him.

      Thorold’s face was black with fury.

      “There’s the watch, you cheap poke-getter!” he choked. “Don’t forget to frisk that while you’re at it!”

      Jimmie Dale examined the collection with a sort of imperturbable appraisement.

      “No,” he said judicially. “You can keep your watch, Thorold; I haven’t got the same lay as our friend Jake here, and that sort of thing is too hard to get rid of to make it worth while. I’ll take these, and that’s all.” He whipped the pile of letters and papers into his pocket. “You see, with a man of your profession, there is always the chance of there being something valuable amongst—”

      Jimmie Dale never finished the sentence. With a sudden, low, tigerish cry, Thorold heaved the end of the table upward between himself and Jimmie Dale—and, quick as a cat, as Jimmie Dale staggered backward, leaped from behind it.

      “Get him, Jake! Get him, Jake!” he cried. “He won’t dare to fire in here for the noise. Get him, you fool, he—”

      But Jimmie Dale was the quicker of the two. A vicious left full on the point of Thorold’s jaw stopped the man’s rush—but only for the fraction of a second. Thorold, recovering instantly, flung his body forward, and his arms wrapped themselves around Jimmie Dale’s neck. And now, old Jake, screeching like a madman, was circling around them, snatching, clawing, striking at Jimmie Dale’s face and head.

      Thorold was a powerful man; and at the first tight-locked grip, as they swayed together, trained athlete though he was himself, Jimmie Dale realised that he had met his match. Again and again, with all his strength he tried to throw the other from him. Around and around the room they staggered and lurched—and around and around them followed the wizened, twisted form of old Jake, like a hovering hawk, darting in at every opportunity for a blow, shrieking, yelling, cursing with infuriated abandon. And then from below, a greater peril still, came the opening and shutting of doors, voices calling—the tenement, at the racket, like a hive of hornets disturbed, was beginning to stir into life. If they caught him there! If they caught the Gray Seal there! It brought a desperate strength to Jimmie Dale. He had heard too often that slogan of the underworld—death to the Gray Seal!

      He tore one of Thorold’s arms free from his neck—they were cheek to cheek—Thorold was snarling out a torrent of blasphemy with gasping breath—he wrenched himself free still—and then, their two hands outstretched and clasped together as though in some grim devil’s waltz, they reeled